The eagle's wing: A story of the Colorado (2024)

By B. M. Bower

To the American Eagle,

CONTENTS

THE EAGLE’S WING

CHAPTER ONE
KING, OF THE MOUNTED

On the wide south porch of the house where he hadbeen born, Rawley King sat smoking his pipe in thedusk heavy with the scent of a thousand roses. Thefragrant serenity of the great, laurel-hedged yard ofthe King homestead was charming after the hot, emptyspaces of the desert. Even the somber west wing ofthe brooding old house seemed wrapped in the peacethat enfolds lives moving gently through long, uneventfulmonths and years. The smoke of his pipe billowedlazily upward in the perfumed air; incense burned bythe prodigal son upon the home altar after his wanderings.

The old Indian, Johnny Buffalo, came walkingstraight as an arrow across the strip of grass besidethe syringa bushes that banked the west wing. Rawleystraightened and stared, the bowl of his pipe saggingto the palm of his hand. As far back as he couldremember, none had ever crossed that space of clippedgrass to hold speech with the Kings. But now JohnnyBuffalo walked steadily forward and halted beside theporch.

“Your grandfather say you come,” he announcedcalmly and turned back to the somber west wing.

Sheer amazement held Rawley motionless for amoment. Until the Indian spoke to him he had almostforgotten the strangeness of that hidden, remote lifeof his grandfather. From the time he could toddle,Rawley had been taught that he must not go near thewest wing of the house or approach the brooding oldman in the wheel chair. As for the Indian who servedhis grandfather, Rawley had been too much afraid ofhim to attempt any friendly overtures. There hadbeen vague hints that Grandfather King was not quiteright in his mind; that a brooding melancholy held him,and that he would suffer no one but his Indian servantnear him. Now, after nearly thirty years of studiedaloofness, his grandfather had summoned him.

The Indian was waiting in the shadowed west porchwhen Rawley tardily arrived at the steps. He turnedwithout speaking and opened the door, waiting forRawley to pass. Still dumb with astonishment, a bitawed, Rawley crossed the threshold and for the firsttime in his life stood in the presence of his grandfather.

A powerful figure the old man must have been inhis youth. Old age had shrunk him, had sagged hisshoulders and dried the flesh upon his bones; butyears could not hide the breadth of those shouldersor change the length of those arms. His eyes werepiercingly blue and his lips were firm under the droopingwhite mustache. His snow-white hair was heavyand lay upon his shoulders in natural waves that madeit seem heavier than it really was,—just so he hadprobably worn it in the old, old days on the frontier.His eyebrows were domineering and jet black, andthe whole rugged countenance betrayed the savagestrength of the spirit that dwelt back of his eyes. Butthe great, gaunt body stopped short at the knees, andthe gray blanket smoothed over his lap could not hidethe tragic mutilation; nor could the great mustacheconceal the bitter lines around his mouth.

“Back from Arizona, hey?” he launched abruptlyat Rawley, and his voice was grim as his face.

Rawley started. Perhaps he expected a cracked,senile tone; it would have fitted better the tradition ofthe old man’s mental weakness.

“Just got back to-day, Grandfather.” InstinctivelyRawley swung to a matter-of-fact manner, warding offhis embarrassment over the amazing interview.

“Mining expert, hey? Know your business?”

“Well enough to be paid for working at it,” grinnedRawley, trying unsuccessfully to keep his eyes fromstraying curiously around the room filled with ancienttrophies of a soldier’s life half a century before.

“Not much like your father! I’ll bet he couldn’thave told you the meaning of the words. Damnedmilksop. Bank clerk! Not a drop of King blood inhis body—far as looks and actions went. Guess hethought gold grew on bushes, stamped with the date ofthe harvest!”

“I remember him vaguely. He never seemed wellor strong,” Rawley defended his dead father.

“Never had the King make-up. Only weakling theKings ever produced—and he had to be my son!Take a look at that picture on the bureau. That’swhat I mean by King blood. Johnny, give him thepicture.”

The Indian moved silently to a high chest of drawersagainst the farther wall and lifted from it an enlarged,framed photograph, evidently copied from an earliercrude effort of some pioneer in the art. He placed itreverently in Rawley’s hands and retreated to a respectfuldistance.

“Taken before I started out with Moorehead’s expeditionin ’59. Six feet two in my bare feet, and notan ounce of soft flesh in my body. Not a man in thecompany I couldn’t throw. Johnny could tell you.”A note of pride had crept into the old man’s voice.

“I can see it, Grandfather. I—I’d give anything tohave been with you in those days. Lord, what aphysique!”

The fierce old eyes sparkled. The bony fingersgripped the arms of the wheel chair like steel claws.

“That’s the King blood. Give me two legs and I’dbe a King yet, old as I am—instead of a hunk of meatin a wheel chair.”

“It’s the spirit that counts, Grandfather,” Rawleyobserved hearteningly, his eyes still on the picture butlifting now to the old man’s face. “The picture’slike you yet.”

The old man grunted doubtfully, his eyes fixedsharply upon Rawley’s face. His fingers drummedrestlessly upon the arm of his chair, as if he wereseeing in the young man his own care-free youth, andwas yearning over it in secret. Indeed, as he stoodthere in the light of the old-fashioned lamp, RawleyKing might have been mistaken for the original ofthe picture with the costume set fifty years ahead.

“Johnny, get the box.” Grandfather King spokewithout taking his eyes off Rawley.

The old Indian slipped away. In a moment he returnedwith a square metal box which he placed on theold man’s knees. Rawley found himself wonderingwhat his mother would say when he told her thatGrandfather King had sent for him, was actuallytalking to him, giving him a glimpse of that sealedpast of his. He watched his grandfather fit a keyinto the lock of the metal box.

“You’re a King, thank God. I’ve watched yougrow. Six feet and over, and no water in your blood,by the looks. You’re like I was at your age. Johnnyknows. He can remember how I looked when I hadtwo legs. Here. You take these—they’re yours,and all the good you can get out of them. Read ’emboth. Read ’em till you get the good that’s in ’em.If you’re a King, you’ll do it.”

He held out two worn little books. Rawley tookthem, eyeing them queerly. One was a Bible, the old-fashioned,leather-bound pocket size edition, with ametal clasp. The other book was smaller; a diary,evidently, with a leather band going around, the endslipping under a flap to hold it secure.

“I will—you bet!” Rawley made his voice ashearty as his puzzlement would permit. “Thanks,Grandfather.”

“I meant ’em for your father—but he wasn’t theman to get anything out of ’em worth while. A milksop—worespectacles before he wore pants! Hisidea of success was to shove money out to otherpeople through a grated window. Paugh! Whenhe told me that was his ambition, I came near burningthe books. Johnny could tell you. He stoppedme—only time in his life he ever stuck his footthrough the wheel of my chair and anchored meout of reach of the fire. Out of reach of my guns,too, or I’d have killed him maybe! Johnny said,‘You wait. Maybe more Kings come—like Grandfather.’

“So I did wait, and after a while I could watchyou grow—all King. I could tell by the set of yourshoulders and the tone of your voice and the wayyou went straight at anything you wanted. So there’syour legacy, boy, from King, of the Mounted. Askany of the old veterans who King, of the Mounted,was! You read those books.” He lifted a bonyfinger and pointed. “There’s a lot in that Bible—ifyou read it careful.”

“You bet, Grandfather!” Rawley undid the claspand opened the book politely. The old man twistedhis lips into a sardonic smile. His eyes gleamed, indigoblue, under his shaggy black brows. Then, as if remindedof something forgotten, he dipped into thebox, fumbled a bit and held out his hand to Rawley.

“You’re a mining expert; maybe you can tell mewhere I picked them up.” His eyes bored into Rawley’sface.

Rawley bent his head over the three nuggets ofgold. He weighed them in his hand, turned them tothe light of the lamp which Johnny Buffalo had liftedfrom the table and held close.

“Greenhorns think that gold is gold,” Rawleygrinned at last. “And so it is—but you left a littlerock sticking to this one, Grandfather. So I’ll guessNevada.”

“Hunh!” The old man’s eyes sparkled. “Whatpart?”

Rawley glanced up at him with the endearing Kingsmile. “Say, I’m liable to fall down on that! ButI reckon King, of the Mounted, will put me flat againstthe wall before he quits, anyway. So—well, howabout Searchlight?”

“Hunh! I guess you know your job.” Theold man smiled back at him, a glimmer of that sameendearing quality in the smile and the eyes. He wavedback the gold when Rawley would have returned it.“Keep it—you’ve earned it. No use to me anymore.” He settled deeper into the chair and gavea great sigh as his head dropped back against thecushions. “Fifty years ago I picked ’em up—andI’ve lived to see a King turn them over twice in hishand and tell me within a few miles of where I gotthem. That shows what I mean by King blood. Fiftyyears ago! It’s a long time to live like a hunk of meat.I’m seventy-nine—”

“Get out! You’d have to prove it, Grandfather.That’s a good ten years more than you look.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy.” But King, of the Mounted,failed to look censorious. “You read that Bible. Remember,that’s the legacy old King, of the Mounted,leaves to the next King in line. It don’t lie, boy. Readit faithful and heed what it says, and some day you’llsay the old man wasn’t so crazy after all.”

“Why, Grandfather,—”

But the old man waved him away with a peremptorygesture. Johnny Buffalo glided to the door, openedit and held it so, waiting with the inscrutable calm ofhis race.

“Well, good night, Grandfather. I’m—glad tohave had this little talk. And I hope it won’t be thelast. I always wanted to pioneer, and I’ve always feltas if I’d like to talk over those times—”

Rawley was finding it rather difficult even yet tobridge the silence of a lifetime.

“You grew up thinking I was crazy, most likely.Easy to say the old man’s touched in the head—whenthey don’t want to bother with a cripple. You’re aKing. Maybe you can guess what it means to be a hulkin a wheel chair. And the Kings never ran after anybody;nor the Rawlinses, your grandmother’s people.Two good names—glad you carry ’em both. If youlive up to ’em both you’ll go far. Take care of thosetwo books, boy. Remember what I said—they’reyour legacy from King, of the Mounted. Good night.”

The old man snapped out the last two words in atone of finality and reached for his pipe. Johnny Buffaloopened the door an inch wider. Rawley obeyedthe unspoken hint and straightway found himself outside,with the door closed behind him. He waited,listening, loth to go. Now that the feud was broken,he tingled with the desire to know more about hisgrandfather, more about those wonderful old fightingfrontier days, more about King, of the Mounted.

“Crazy? I should say not!” Rawley muttered ashe made his way slowly across the strip of grass bythe syringas. “I only hope my brain will be as keenas Grandfather’s when I am his age.”

He stood for a few minutes breathing deep the nightair saturated with perfume. Then, with the spell ofhis grandfather’s vivid personality strong upon him,he went in to where his mother sat gently rocking besidea rose-shaded lamp, looking over a late magazine.

“I’ve just been having a talk with Grandfather,”Rawley announced bluntly, sitting down opposite hismother and studying her as if she were a stranger tohim. Indeed, those few minutes spent in the west winghad dealt a sharp blow to his unquestioning faith inhis mother. Mrs. King dropped the magazine andopened her lips—artificially red—and gave a faintgasp.

“Grandfather’s mind is as clear as yours or mine,”Rawley stated challengingly. “A bit old-fashioned,maybe—a man couldn’t live in a wheel chair for fiftyyears or so, shut away from all companionship as hehas been, and keep his ideas right up to the minute. Ifyou ask me, I’ll say he’d make a corking old pal. Fullof pep—or would be if he weren’t crippled. It’s adarned shame I never busted through the feud before.Why, fifty years ago he was all through Nevada—thinkof that! I’d give ten years of my life to havelived when he did, right at his elbow.”

He felt the sag in his pockets then and brought outthe two little books.

“I always thought, Mother, that Grandfather Kingwas a particularly wicked old party. Well, that’s allwrong—same as the idea that he’s weak in the head.He gave me this Bible, and made me promise to readit. He said—”

“Bible?” Rawley’s mother sat up sharply, andher mouth remained open, ready for further wordswhich her mind seemed unable to formulate.

“You bet. He said if I read it faithfully and gotall the good out of it there is in it, I’d thank him therest of my life—or something like that. He meantit, too.”

“Why, Rawley King! Your grandfather has alwaysbeen an atheist of the worst type! I’ve heardyour father tell how he used to hear your grandfatherblaspheme and curse God by the hour for making hima cripple. When he was a little boy—your father, Imean—he was deeply impressed by your grandmotherasking every prayer-meeting night for the prayersof the church to soften her husband’s heart and turnhis thoughts toward God. Your father has told mehow he used to go home afterwards and watch to seeif your grandfather’s heart was softened. But it neverwas—he got wickeder, if possible, and swore horriblyat everything, nearly. Your father said he nearlylost faith in prayer. But he believed that the congregationnever prayed as it should. I wouldn’t believe,Rawley, that your grandfather would have a Biblenear him. Are you sure?”

“Here it is,” Rawley assured her, grinning. “Hesaid it was my legacy from him.”

“Well, that proves to my mind he’s crazy,” hismother said grimly. “Your father always felt thatGrandfather King had sinned against the Holy Ghostand couldn’t repent. Anyway,” she added resentfully,“that’s about all you’ll ever get from him. When hedeeded this place to your father for a wedding present—thatwas a little while after your grandmotherdied—he reserved the west wing for himself as longas he lived. It’s in the deed that he’s not to be interferedwith or molested. When he dies, the westwing becomes a part of this property—which is mine,of course. He lives on his pension, which just aboutkeeps him and that awful old Indian. Of course thepension stops when he dies. So he was right about thelegacy, at least. But I’ll bet he put a curse on the Biblebefore he gave it to you. It would be just like him.”

Rawley shook his head dissentingly. “It’s darnedhard to sit in a wheel chair for fifty years,” he remarkedsomewhat irrelevantly. “I’d cuss things some,myself, I reckon.” And he added abruptly, “Say,Grandfather’s got the bluest eyes, Mother, I ever sawin a man’s head. I thought eyes faded with old age.Did you ever notice his eyes, Mother?”

His mother laughed unpleasantly. “Your GrandfatherKing never gave me any inducement to get closeenough to see his eyes. Seeing him on the porch ofthe west wing is enough for me.”

“He laid a good deal of stress upon his past,” saidRawley. “I suppose because he hasn’t any present—anddarned little future, I’m afraid. He gave me somenuggets. Would you like a nugget ring, Mother?”

His mother glanced at the nuggets and pushed awayRawley’s hand that held them cupped in the palm.

“No, I wouldn’t. Not if your Grandfather Kinghad anything to do with it. He’s been like a poisonplant in the yard ever since I came here, Rawley; likepoison ivy, that you’re careful not to go near. I don’twant to touch anything belonging to him—and I hopeI’m not a vindictive woman, either.”

Rawley was rolling the nuggets in his hand, staringat them abstractedly.

“It’s queer—the whole thing,” he said finally. “Ifeel a sort of leaning toward Grandfather. It wassomething in his eyes. You know, Mother, it mustbe darned tough to have both legs chopped off at theknees when you’re a young husky over six feet inyour socks and full of pep. I—believe I can understandGrandfather King. ‘A hunk of meat in a wheelchair’—that’s what he called himself. And thoseamazing blue eyes of his—”

His mother glanced curiously into his face. “Theycan’t be any bluer than yours, Rawley,” she observed.

Rawley looked up from the nuggets, his foreheadwrinkled with surprise.

“Oh, do you think that, Mother?” He stood upsuddenly, still shaking the nuggets with a dull clink inhis hand. “Well, I hope Grandfather’s passed on afew more of his traits to me. There’s a few of themI’m going to need,” he said drily and kissed his mothergood night.

CHAPTER TWO
JOHNNY BUFFALO BEARS ANOTHER MESSAGE

In his room, Rawley switched on the light and slidinto the big chair by the table. Not to his mothercould he confess how deeply those few minutes withGrandfather King had stirred him. In spite of herattitude toward the silent feud that had endured fornearly thirty years, he was conscious of the dullache of remorse. Without meaning to judge hisparents or to criticize their manner of handling a difficultsituation, Rawley felt that night that he had beenguilty of a great wrong toward his grandfather. Heat least should have ignored the invisible wall thatstood between the west wing and the rest of the house.He was a King; he should not have permitted that reasonlesssilence to endure through all these years.

As a matter of fact, Rawley’s life since he was twelvehad been spent mostly away from home. First, a militaryacademy in the suburbs of St. Louis, with thelong hiking trips featured by the school through thesummer vacations; after that, college,—with a specialcourse in mineralogy. Since then, field work hadclaimed most of his time. Home had therefore beenmerely a place pleasantly tucked away in his memory,with a visit to his mother now and then between jobs.

The first twelve years of his life had thoroughlyaccustomed Rawley to the sight of the fierce old manwith long hair and his legs cut off at his knees, whosometimes appeared in a wheel chair on a porch of thewest wing, attended by an Indian who looked savageenough to scalp a little boy if he ventured too close;a ferocious Indian who scowled and wore his hairparted from forehead to neck and braided in two longbraids over his shoulder, and who padded stealthilyabout the place in beautifully beaded moccasins andfringed buckskin leggings.

Nevertheless, there had been times, as he grew older,when Rawley had been tempted to invade the westwing and find out for himself just how bitterly hisgrandfather clung to the feud. It hurt him to thinknow of the old man’s isolation and of the interestingcompanionship he had cheated himself out of enjoying.

He pulled the two old books from his pocket, handlingthem as if they were the precious things hisgrandfather seemed to consider them. The Bible heopened first, undoing the old-fashioned clasp with histhumb and opening the book at the flyleaf. The inscriptionthere was faded yet distinct on the yellowedpaper. The sloping, careful handwriting of Rawley’sgreat-grandmother sending King, of the Mounted,forth upon his dangerous missions armed with theWord of God,—and hoping prayerfully, no doubt, thathe would read and heed its precepts.

The date thrilled Rawley, aged twenty-six: 1858was the year his great-grandmother had inscribed inthe book. To Rawley it seemed almost as remote asthe Stamp Act or the Mexican War. The thought thatGrandfather King, away back in 1858, had been oldenough to join the Missouri Mounted Volunteers—evento have been made a sergeant in his company andto make for himself a reputation as an Indian fighter—gavethe old man a new dignity in the eyes of hisgrandson. It seemed strange that Grandfather Kingwas still alive and could talk of those days.

The book itself was strangely contradictory in appearance.While the outside was worn and scuffed asif with much usage, the inside crackled faintly a protestagainst unaccustomed handling. The yellowedleaves clung together in layers which Rawley mustcarefully separate. Now and then a line or two showedfaint penciled underscores; otherwise the book didnot look as if it had been opened for many, manyyears. Nowhere was it thumbed and soiled by thefrequent reading of a man living under canvas or theopen sky.

“Looks to me like the old boy has simply passed thebuck,” Rawley grinned. “Maybe he felt as if someone in the family ought to read it. His mother hadit all marked for him, too; wanted to give him a goodstart-off, maybe. No, sir, the old book itself is pinningit onto King, of the Mounted! Mother must be right,after all, and Grandfather never had enough religionto talk about. But he sure gave me a Sunday-schooltalk; funny how a book can stand up and call you aliar.”

He smiled as he closed the book, whimsically shakinghis head over the joke. Then, just to make sure thathis guess was correct, Rawley opened the Bible again.No, there could be no mistake. Crackly new on theinside—though yellowed with age—badly worn onthe outside, the book itself proclaimed the story oflong carrying and little reading. The evidence againstthe sincerity of the old man’s pious admonitions wasconclusive. Rawley laid the Bible down for a furtherconsideration and took up the worn old diary.

Here, too, Grandfather King had betrayed a certainlack of sincerity. Reading the faded entries, Rawleydecided that King, of the Mounted, must have beenan impetuous youth who had learned caution with theyears. Dates, arrivals, departures,—these remained.Incidents, however, had for the most part been neatlysliced out with a knife. And with a stubborn disregardfor the opinion of later readers the stubs of thepages elided had been left to tell of the deliberatemutilation of the record. So Rawley read perfunctorilythe dry record of obscure scouting trips, and the namesof commanders long since dead and remembered onlyin the records.

Rawley learned that his grandfather had taken partin the making of much frontier history. He spoke ofCaptain Hunt in a matter-of-fact way and mentionedthe date on which a certain Captain Hendley had beenkilled by Indians somewhere near Las Vegas, inNevada. On the next page Rawley found this gruesomeparagraph:

From a young Indian captured in the battle of lastweek, I learned the secret of the devilish poisoned arrows,which are black. The black arrows are poisonedin this manner, he tells me, and since I have befriendedhim in many small ways I do not doubt his word. Toprocure the poison, an animal is slain and the liver removed.A captured rattlesnake is then induced tostrike the liver again and again, injecting all of itspoison into the meat. The arrow-points are afterwardsrubbed in the putrid mass and left to dry. Needless tosay, a wound touched by this poison and decayed meatsurely causes death. The young Indian tells me thata certain desert plant has been successfully used as anantidote, but he did not tell me the name of the plant.He declared that he did not know, that only the doctorsof his tribe know that secret.

I think he lied. He was willing to tell me the horridmeans of making the poison. But is too cunning tolet me know the antidote. So the tobacco I’ve givenhim is after all wasted. The information merely increases my dread of the black arrows. Rattlesnakevenom and putrid liver—paugh! I shall—

A page was missing. Followed several pages of briefentries, with long lapses of time between. Then camea page which gave a glimpse into that colorful life:

June, 1866. On board the “Esmeralda.” Arrived atEl Dorado (Deuteronomy, 2:36) to-day. This is thefirst boat up the river.

The Scriptural reference had been inserted in verysmall writing above the name of the place. EvidentlyGrandfather King had been reading some Bible, if notthe one his mother had given him.

A town has sprung up in the wilderness since I washere last, cursing the heat and stinging gnats in ’59.A stamp mill stands at the river’s edge and houses arescattered all up and down the river, while a ferrycrosses to the other shore. A crowd came down to thelanding for their mail and to see what strangers wereon the boat. As yet I do not know whether our companywill be stationed here or at Fort Callville, a fewmiles up the canyon. The Indians are quiet, they say.Too quiet, some of the miners think. On the edge ofthe crowd I saw a young squaw—or perhaps she isSpanish. She has the velvet eyes and the dark roseblooming in her cheeks, which speaks of Spanish blood.By God, she’s beautiful! Not more than sixteen andgraceful as a fairy. I leaned over the rail—

Several pages were cut from the book just there,and Rawley swore to himself. When one is twenty-sixone resents any interruption in a romance. The nextentry read:

July 4th. Great doings at the fort to-day, withbarbeque, wrestling, target practice and gambling.Miners and Indians came out of the hills to celebratethe holiday. In the wrestling matches I easily heldmy own, as in the sharp-shooting. Anita received mymessage and was here—el gusto de mi corazon. Whata damned pity she’s not white! But she’s more Spanishthan Indian, with her proud little ways and herlight heart. Jess Cramer tried again to come betweenus, and there was a fight not down on the program.They carried him to the hospital. A little more and I’dhave broken his back, the surgeon said. If he looksat her again—

More elision just when the interest was keenest.Rawley wanted to know more about Anita—“the joyof my heart”, as Grandfather had set it down inSpanish. The next page, however, whetted Rawley’scuriosity a bit more:

July 15th. To-morrow we march to Las Vegas tomeet a party of emigrants and guard them to San Bernardino.The Indians are unsettled and traveling isnot safe. A miner was murdered and scalped withinten miles of the fort the other day. No mi alebro—Anitawept and clung to me when I told her we hadmarching orders. Dulce corazon—God, how I wishshe was white! But in any case I could not take herwith me. I shall return in a month’s time—

August. In hospital, after a hellish trip in a wagonwith other wounded. Mohave Indians attacked ourwagon train, one hundred miles northeast of here, onthe desert. While leading a charge afoot against theIndians I was shot through both legs. Gangrene setin before we could reach this place, and the doctorwill not promise the speedy recovery I desire.

My Indian boy, Johnny Buffalo, refuses to leave myside. He hates all other whites. On the desert I pickedhim up half dead with thirst, and set him before meon the saddle because he feared the wagons. I judgehim to be about ten. If I live, I shall keep the boywith me and train him for my body-servant. A faithfulIndian is better than a watch-dog—

A lapse of several months intervened before thenext entry. Then a brief record, which told of theclosing of one romance and the beginning of another:

November 15th. This day I married Mary JaneRawlins. Was able to stand during the ceremony,supported by two crutches. My Indian boy slippedaway from the others and stood close behind me duringthe service, one hand clutching tightly my coat-tail.Mary has courage, to wish to marry a man likely tobe a cripple the rest of his days.

Nothing further was recorded for several years;four, to be exact. Then:

Returned to-day from hospital. After all this suffering,both legs were taken off above the knee. Thepoison had spread to the joints. What a pity it wasnot my neck.

On the next page was one grim line:

December 4th, 1889. My wife, Mary Rawlins King,was buried to-day.

That ended the diary. In a memorandum pocket justinside the cover, a folded paper lay snug and flat.Rawley drew it forth eagerly and held it close to thelamp. His face clouded then with disappointment, fornothing was written on the paper save a list of Biblereferences.

So that was the legacy. An old diary just interestingenough to be tantalizing, with half the pages cutout; Bible references probably given to King, of theMounted, by his mother. And a worn old Bible thathad never been read. Rawley stacked the books oneupon the other and leaned back in his chair, staringat them meditatively while he filled his pipe. Hetook three puffs before he laughed silently.

“He was a speedy old bird, I’ll say that much forhim,” he told himself. “I’ll bet those pages he cutout fairly sizzled. And I’ll bet he cut them out aboutthe time he married Grandmother. Also, I think heleft one or two pages by mistake. Well, I’ll say helived! As long as he had two good legs under himhe was up and coming. I don’t suppose there’s a chancein the world of getting him to talk about Anita. ‘Elgusto de mi corazon—’ There’s nothing like theSpanish for love-making words. And that was in July—andhe married Grandmother in November. Poorlittle half-breed girl who should have been white!But then, I reckon he’d have gone back to her if hecould. But they sent him home—crippled for life.You can’t blame Grandfather, after all. And I noticehe mentioned the fact that Grandmother wanted tomarry him. Sorry for the handsome young soldier oncrutches, but it’s darned hard on Anita, just the same.And I don’t suppose he could even get word to her.”

He smoked the pipe out, his thoughts gone a-questinginto the long ago, where the black arrows weredipped in loathsome poison, and young Indian girlshad the fire and grace of the Spaniards.

“She’d be old, too, by now—if she’s alive,” hethought, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe andyawned. “I wonder if she ever forgot. And I wonderif Grandfather ever thinks of her now. He does,I’ll bet. Those terrible, blue eyes! They couldn’t forget.”

He went to bed, his imagination still held to the daysof the fighting old frontier; still building adventuresand romances for the dashing, blue-eyed King, of theMounted.

He was dreaming of an Indian fight when a sharptapping on his window woke him to gray dawn. Hesprang out of bed, still knuckling the sleep out of hiseyes, and saw Johnny Buffalo standing close to theopen screen. The Indian raised a hand.

“You come quick. Your grandfather is dead.”

CHAPTER THREE
“MY HEART IS DEAD”

It was the evening after the funeral, and Rawleywas sitting again on the porch, staring out gloomilyover a cold pipe into the yard. His grandfather’sdeath had hit him a harder blow than he would havethought possible. The shock of it, coming close onthe heels of his first keen realization that GrandfatherKing was a vivid personality, left him numbed witha sense of loss.

His mother’s evident relief at the removal of anunpleasant problem chilled and irritated him. Hercalm assumption that the Indian must also be removedfrom the place, now that his master was gone, seemedto Rawley almost like sacrilege. The place belonged tohis mother only by right of his grandfather’s generosity.To rob the Indian of a home he had enjoyedsince boyhood was unthinkable.

He turned his head and glanced toward the westwing, his eyes following his thoughts. A dimly outlinedfigure stood erect upon the porch of the west wing.Pity gripped Rawley by the throat; pity and half-consciousadmiration. Even the greatest grief of hislife could not bow the shoulders of Johnny Buffalo.With no definite purpose, drawn only by the kinshipof their loss, Rawley rose, crossed the grass plot bythe syringas and sat down on the top step of the westporch.

Johnny Buffalo stood with his arms folded, thefringe on his buckskin sleeves whipping gently in thesoft breeze that rose when the sun went down. Hewas staring straight out at nothing,—the nothingnessthat epitomized his future. Rawley slanted a glance upat him and began thoughtfully refilling his pipe. By hissilence he was unconsciously bringing himself closeto the soul of the Indian, the traditions of whose raceforbade hasty speech.

Half a pipe Rawley smoked, staring meditativelyinto the dusk. In that time Johnny Buffalo had movedno more than if he were a statue of brown stone. ThenRawley tipped his head sidewise and looked up at him.

“Sit down, Johnny. I want to talk.”

“Talk is useless when the heart is dead,” saidJohnny Buffalo after a long pause. But he came downtwo steps and seated himself, straight-backed, head up,beside Rawley.

“The man I love is cold. His spirit has gone. So Iam left cold, and my heart is dead. I shall wait—andbe glad when my body is dead.”

Rawley felt a sharp constriction in his throat. Forone moment he almost hated his mother who woulddrive this stricken old man out into a world he did notknow. A gun against his temple would be kinder.He drew a long breath.

“Would you like to wait here, where he lived?”Intuitively he crystallized his thoughts into the briefestwords possible to express his meaning.

Johnny Buffalo shook his head slowly, with a decisivenessthat could not be questioned. He foldedhis arms again across his grief-laden breast.

“It is your mother’s. In the fields I can wait fordeath, which is my friend. I shall walk toward theland of my people. When death finds me I shall smile.”

Rawley turned this over in his mind, seeking somepoint where argument might break down bitter resolution.

“Cowards wait for death when life grows hard,”he said at last. “The brave man meets life and facessorrow because he is brave and will overcome. Thebrave man fights death which is an enemy. He doesnot run away from life and welcome his enemy. Mygrandfather found life very hard. For fifty yearsmy grandfather faced it because his spirit was strong.”

“Your grandfather’s spirit was strong. His bodywas broken. My body is strong. My spirit is broken.Can a strong body live with a broken spirit inside?”

Rawley had to smoke over this for a while. JohnnyBuffalo, he conceded privately, was no man’s fool.Rawley tried to put himself in the Indian’s place anddiscover, if he could, something that would make lifeworth the living.

“Your people are scattered,” he said quietly. “Feware left. The Mohaves are a broken tribe.”

“The Mohaves are not my people,” the Indian correctedhim calmly. “I am Pahute. In the mountainsalong the river you call the Colorado, my people livedand hunted—and fought. My uncle was the chief,and I was proud. One day my mother beat me with astick. I took my bow and my arrows and some driedmeat, and that night I left my people, for I was angryand ashamed. With my bow I had killed two mountainsheep. With my bow I had hidden in the rocksand had wounded a white man who was digging in thehillside. I thought I was a warrior and not to bebeaten by a squaw.

“The great thirst found me as I was walking towardthe mountains where all my life I had seen thesun go down. With my bow and arrow I could getmeat, but I could not get water. All my life I hadlived near the river. The great thirst I did notknow.

“I fell in the sand. When I awoke, water was inmy mouth. I looked, and I was lying in the arms of awhite man. He was big and strong and very handsome.He was Sergeant King. Your grandfather. I lookedinto his eyes and I was not afraid. There was no hatein my heart for him, but all other whites I hated. Helifted me and carried me in his arms and laid me in awagon with white women and children. I hated them.I was weak from the thirst and from much walking,but I bit deep into the arm of a woman who put herhand on me.

“There was much yelling in that wagon. Thewoman struck me many times. A horse came galloping.Your grandfather lifted me out of the wagon and putme on the horse with him. So we rode together in onesaddle. I loved him.

“The Mohaves attacked the whites when we hadgone many days. My sergeant left me with his horseby the wagons. He crept behind bushes and killedmany. He was a great warrior and I was proud whenhis gun brought death to a Mohave. I watched him,for I loved him. When I saw him fall from his kneesand lie on his face in the sand, I jumped from the horseand went creeping through the brush. He was notdead. I took his gun and killed Mohaves. Pretty soonmy sergeant looked at me and smiled while I killed.When there were no more Mohaves, the captain came.They put my sergeant in a wagon and I sat beside him.I gave him water, I gave him food. With my fistsI beat back those who would take from me the joyof serving him.

“A long time he was sick in the town we entered.I was with him. Every day and every night he couldopen his eyes and see that I was with him.”

The sonorous voice ceased its monotone and theIndian sat silent, staring into the past. After a whilehe turned his head and looked full at Rawley.

“I was a boy when he took me. Now I am an oldman. Since he took me there has been no night whenmy sergeant could call and get no answer. There hasbeen no day when my sergeant could look and couldnot see me. Now my sergeant is gone. My heart isgone with him.”

Enthralled by the picture vividly painted with boldstrokes by the Indian, Rawley sat hunched over hispipe, cuddling the cooling bowl in his fingers.

“Your sergeant was my grandfather. At the lastI loved him, too. I am a King. I need you.” Histone stamped the lie as truth. Later he would find someway of making it the truth, he thought.

Johnny Buffalo eyed him sharply in the deepeningdusk.

“You have read the book?” he asked after a minute.“If you have read, then I will go with you. The spiritof my sergeant will go. My heart may live again.”

“What book?” Rawley’s eyes widened.

“Your grandfather gave you the book. Yourgrandfather commanded that you read.” Reproachwas in the voice of Johnny Buffalo.

“I have read the diary—the book where he wroteof his travels. Do you mean that book?”

Johnny Buffalo gave a grunt that was pure Indianand signified disgust.

Rawley frowned over the puzzle and his very evidentdefection. It must be the Bible that was meant,he decided. But he could see no reason why he shouldread the Bible and then go somewhere. Still, the thingseemed to have pulled Johnny Buffalo out of his sloughof despond, and that was what Rawley had been workingfor.

“If you mean the Bible,” he said tentatively, “I readit a little, that night.”

Johnny Buffalo peered at him. “Read that bookmore. Your grandfather commanded that you shouldread. I heard the promise you gave. You said, ‘Youbet.’ It was a promise to obey your grandfather.”

“I mean to keep the promise,” Rawley replied defensively.“I haven’t had time. Things have beenpretty much upset since that night.”

The Indian meditated. “You read,” he admonishedafter due deliberation. “Your grandfather nevertalked to make words. I think he would have told youmore. But his spirit went. I will stay in a tent by theriver. When you have read, you come. We will talkmore when you have read.”

Rawley felt the dismissal under the words. Heoffered the Indian money, which was refused by a gesture.Then, conscious of a certain vague excitement inthe back of his mind, he went back to his own part ofthe house.

CHAPTER FOUR
RAWLEY READS THE BIBLE

In his room again, Rawley unlocked his desk andgot the two books which were his “legacy.” He wasyoung, and for all his technical training the spirit ofromance called to his youth. There was something particularlyimportant, something urgent in the admonitionthat he should read the Scriptures. Rawley’s trainingwas all against vague speculations. Your miningengineer fights guesswork at every stage of his profession.

He sat down with the books in his hand and beganto reason the thing out cold-bloodedly, as if it were aproblem in mineral formations. He undid the clasp ofthe Bible, opened it and looked through all the leaves,seeking for some hidden paper. He spent half an hourin the search and discovered nothing. There was nomessage, then, hidden in the Bible. His grandfathermust have meant the actual reading of the text itself.

Then he remembered the paper filled with references,hidden in the pocket of the diary. There might besomething significant in that, he thought. He openedthe diary, took out the paper and glanced down the listof references. They were scattered all through thebook and there were sixty-four of them.

He opened the Bible again and began to look for thefirst one—I Kings, 20:3. The leaves stuck together,they turned in groups, they seemed determined thathe should not find I Kings anywhere in the book.Daniel, Joshua, Jeremiah, Zechariah and Esther hepeered into; there didn’t seem to be any Kings.

He muttered a word frequently found in the Bible,laid the book down and went to the living room, to thebig, embossed Family Bible that had his birth date init and the date of his father’s death; and pictures atwhich he had been permitted to look on Sunday afternoonsif he were a good boy. His mother had goneout to some meeting or other. He had the room tohimself and he could read at his leisure.

It struck him immediately that this Bible had notbeen much read either. But the leaves were thickenough to turn singly, the print was large, and ifI Kings were present he felt that he had some chanceof finding it. With pencil and paper beside him, andwith the list of references in one hand, he thereforeset himself methodically to the task. And he wastwenty-six, and the blood of the adventurous Kingsbeat strongly in his veins. So when he had found thebook and the chapter which headed the list, he ranhis finger down the half-column to the third verse;and this is what he read:

Thy silver and thy gold is mine; thy wives also andthy children, even the goodliest, are mine.

Rawley was conscious of a slight chill of disappointmentwhen he had written it down in his fine,beautifully exact, draftsman’s handwriting. But hewent doggedly to work on the next reference nevertheless:

Psalms, 73:7. Their eyes stand out with fatness;they have more than heart could wish.

This was no more promising, but he had promised toread, and this seemed to him the most practical methodof getting at his grandfather’s secret purpose andthoughts. So he settled himself down to an evening’shard labor with book and paper.

He was just finishing the work when he heard hismother’s footsteps on the porch. Rather guiltily heclosed the Bible and folded his notes, so that hismother, coming into the room, found Rawley standingbefore a large window, thoughtfully gazing out intothe dark while he stuffed tobacco in his pipe. Hismother was a religious woman and a member of thechurch, but she took her religion according to certainfixed rules. Reading the Bible casually, apparently forentertainment, would have required an explanation,—andRawley did not want to explain, least of all tohis mother.

He listened with perfunctory interest to her accountof the evening’s edifications (a Swedish missionaryhaving lectured in his own tongue, with an interpreter)and escaped when he could to his room. He wantedto be alone where he could try and guess the riddle hisgrandfather had placed before him.

That there was a message of some kind hidden awayin the Scriptural quotations, Rawley felt absolutelycertain. In the first place, they did not seem to himsuch passages as a devout person would cherish for thecomfort they held. Moreover, certain verses had beenrepeated, although the text itself did not seem to justifysuch emphasis. Precious metals, and journeyings intorough country, he decided, was the dominant note ofthe citations and the net result was confusing to saythe least. If his grandfather really intended that heshould discover any meaning in the jumble, he shouldhave furnished a key, Rawley told himself disgustedly,some time after midnight, when he had read the quotationsover and over until his head ached and theyseemed more meaningless than at first.

But his grandfather had told him emphatically thatthere was a lot in the Bible, if he read it carefullyenough. There might have been in the statement nomeaning deeper than an old man’s whim, but Rawleycould not bring himself to believe it. Somewhere inthose verses a secret lay hidden, and Rawley did notmean to give up until he had solved the problem.

At daylight the next morning Rawley awoke withwhat he considered an inspiration. He swung out ofbed and with his bathrobe over his shoulders made astealthy pilgrimage into the old-fashioned librarywhere the conventional aggregation of “works” wereto be found in leather-bound sets. Squatting on hishaunches, he inspected a certain dim corner filled withfiction of the type commonly accepted as standard.He chose a volume and returned to bed, leaving oneof his heelless slippers behind him in his absorptionin the mystery.

He crawled back into bed and read Poe’s “GoldBug” before breakfast, giving particular attention to theelucidation of the cipher contained in the story. Thegeneral effect of this research work was not illuminating.Poe’s cipher had been worked out with numbers,whereas Grandfather King had carelessly muffled hismeaning in many words; unless the book, chapter andverse numbers were intended to convey the messagein cipher similar to Poe’s.

This possibility struck Rawley in the middle of hisshaving. He could not wait to put the theory to thetest, but hastily wiped the razor, and the lather from oneside of his face, opened his grandfather’s old Bible atthe index and began setting down the number of eachbook above its name in the reference list. Thus,I Kings, 20:3 became the numerals 11-20-3.

He was eagerly at work at this when his mothercalled him to breakfast. His mother was a womanwho worked industriously at being cultured. She hada secret ambition to be called behind her back a brilliantconversationalist. Breakfast, therefore, was always anuncomfortable meal for Rawley whenever his motherhad attended some instructive gathering the eveningbefore.

While he ate his first muffin, Rawley listened to afoggy interpretation of the Swedish lecturer’s ideasupon universal brotherhood. Rather, he sat quiet whilehis mother talked. Then he interrupted her shockingly.

“Say, Mother, do you know whether Grandfatherever read Poe?”

A swallow of coffee went down his mother’s “Sundaythroat.” It was some minutes before she couldreply, and by that time Rawley had decided that perhapshe had better not bother his mother about thecipher. He patted her on the back, begged her pardonfor asking foolish questions, and escaped to his ownroom, where he spent the whole day with “The GoldBug” opened before him at the page which containedPoe’s rule concerning the frequency with which certainletters occur in the alphabet.

That evening there was a fine litter of papers scribbledover with letters and numbers, singly and ingroups. Rawley could not get two words that madesense. The thing simply didn’t work. If his grandfatherhad ever read Poe’s “Gold Bug”, he certainlyhad not used it for a pattern.

He went back to his sixty-four Bible verses and beganstudying them again. But he could not see anyreason why Grandfather King should claim anyone’s wives and children, whose “eyes stand outwith fatness.” The third and fourth verses wereintelligible;

Proverbs, 2:1. My son, if thou wilt receive mywords, and hide my commandments with thee.

II Chronicles, 1:12. Wisdom and knowledge isgranted unto thee; and I will give thee riches, andwealth, and honor, such as none of the kings havehad that have been before thee, neither shall there anyafter thee have the like.

Even the next three lent themselves to a possiblepersonal meaning:

Psalms, 2:10. Be wise now therefore, oh ye kings;be instructed, ye judges of the earth.

I Chronicles, 22:16. Of the gold, the silver, andthe brass, and the iron, there is no number. Rise,therefore, and be doing and the Lord be with thee.

Deuteronomy, 11:11. But the land, whither ye goto possess it, is a land of hills and valleys, and drinkethwater of the rain of heaven.

After that, he was all at sea.

He picked up the little Bible and opened it again.It must be there that the message was hidden; andRawley felt very sure, by now, that the Bible quotationsheld the secret. The book opened at the eleventh chapterof Deuteronomy. Here was a verse marked,—averse made familiar to Rawley in his hours of exhaustive study. Only a part of the verse was marked,however, by a penciled line drawn faintly beneathcertain words.

With a sudden excitement Rawley seized a freshsheet of paper and wrote down the marked passage,“The land whither ye go to possess it is a land ofhills and valleys.”

Painstakingly then he began at the beginning of thereference list and worked his way once more throughbook, chapter and verse. But this time he used hisgrandfather’s Bible and copied only such parts of theverse as were underscored. Now he was on the righttrack, and as he wrote his excitement grew apace.From a hopeless jumble, the verses conveyed to himthis message:

...Gold is mine...more than heart could wish.My son, if thou wilt receive my words and hide mycommandments with thee...I will give thee riches,and wealth...such as none of the kings have hadthat have been before thee. Be wise now, therefore, beinstructed. Of the gold...there is no number. Theland whither ye go to possess it is a land of hills andvalleys. Do this now, my son. Go through...thecity which is by the river in the wilderness...yetmaking many rich. In the midst thereof...a ferry-boat...which is by the brink of the river. Takevictuals with you for the journey...turn you northwardinto the wilderness...to a great and highmountain...cedar trees in abundance...scatteredover the face of...the high mountain. In the cliffs...there is a path which no fowl knoweth, and whichthe vulture’s eye hath not seen. Come to the top of themount...pass over unto the other side...westward...on the hillside...a very great heap ofstones...joined...to...a dry tree. Go intothe clefts of the rocks...into the tops of the jaggedrocks...to the sides of the pit...take heed now...that is...exceeding deep. It is hid from theeyes of all living...creep into...the midst thereof...eastward...two hundred, fourscore andeight...feet...ye shall find...a pure riverof water...proceed no further...there is gold...heavier than the sand...pure gold...uponthe sand. And all the gold...thou shalt take up...then shalt thou prosper if thou takest heed...I know thy poverty, but thou art rich...take heednow...On the hillside...which is upon the bankof the river...in the wilderness...there shallthe vultures also be gathered...ye shall find...him that...is mine enemy...his mouth is fullof cursing...under his tongue is mischief andvanity...be watchful...the heart is desperatelywicked...He that keepeth his mouth keepeth hislife...I put my trust in thee. Now, my son, theLord be with thee and prosper thou.

His first impulse was to find Johnny Buffalo. Hefolded the paper, slipped it safely into a pocket andreached for his hat. He had neglected to ask theIndian just where he meant to make his camp, but hefelt sure that he could find him. Indeed, when hestopped in the path halfway to the front gate andlooked toward the west wing, he could just discerna figure standing on the porch. So he crossed thegrass plot and in a moment stood before JohnnyBuffalo.

Again his mood impelled him to the manner thatmost appealed to the old Indian, nephew of a chief ofhis tribe. He waited for a space before he spoke.And when he did speak it was in the restrained tonewhich had won the Indian’s confidence the eveningbefore.

“I have read,” he stated quietly, “and I know whatit is that Grandfather meant. If we can go inside I’llread it to you.”

“The door is locked.” Johnny Buffalo pointed onefinger over his shoulder. “It is a new lock put thereby your mother. She does not want me to go in.”

Rawley pressed his lips tightly together before hedared trust himself to speak. He looked at thebarred door, thought of the room he had seen, its furnishingsenriched by a hundred little mementoes ofthe past that belonged to his soldier grandfather. Hehad a swift, panicky fear that his mother would call ina second-hand furniture dealer and take what price heoffered for the stuff. That, he promised himself, hewould prevent at all costs.

“Come into my room, then,” he invited. “I wantto read you what I discovered.”

“No. The house is your mother’s. We will go tomy camp.”

So it was by the light of a camp fire, with the Mississippiflowing majestically past them under the stars,that Rawley first read as a complete document theScriptural fragments that contained his grandfather’smessage. Away in the northeast the lights of St. Louisset the sky aglow. Little lapping waves crept like lickinglips against the bank with a whispery sound thatmingled pleasantly with the subdued crackling of thefire. Across the leaping flames, Johnny Buffalo satwith his brown, corded hands upon his knees, his blackbraids drawn neatly forward across his chest. Hislean face with its high nose and cheek bones flaredinto light or grew shadowed as the flames reachedtoward him or drew away. His lips were pressedfirmly together, as if he had learned well the lesson ofsetting their seal against his thoughts.

“There is one point I thought you might be able totell me,” Rawley said, looking across the fire when hehad finished reading. “This ‘City which is by theriver in the wilderness’—and ‘In the midst thereofa ferryboat which is by the brink of the river.’ Doyou know what place is meant by that? Is it El Dorado,Nevada? Because Grandfather’s diary tells ofgoing up the river to El Dorado. And I remember,now, there was some kind of Bible reference writtenover the name. I don’t remember what it was, though.I didn’t look it up. We’ll have to make sure aboutthat, for the directions start from that point. It sayswe’re to go through the city which is by the river, andturn northward—and so on.”

The Indian reached out a hand, lifted a stick ofwood and laid it across the fire. His eyes turned towardthe river.

“Many times, when the air was warm and thestars sat in their places to watch the night, my sergeantcame here with me, and I gathered wood tomake a fire. Many hours he would sit here in hischair beside the river. Sometimes he would talk. Hiswords were of the past when he was the strongest ofall men. Sometimes his words were of El Dorado. Itis a city by the river, and a ferryboat is in the midstthereof. It has made many rich with the gold theydig from the mountains. I think that is the city youmust go through.”

“There isn’t any city now,” Rawley told him. “It’sbeen abandoned for years. I don’t think there’s atown there, any more.”

“There is the place by the river,” Johnny Buffaloobserved calmly. “There is the great and high mountain.There is ‘the path that no man knoweth.’”

“Yes, you bet. And we’re going to find it, JohnnyBuffalo. I’ve got a chance to go out that way thismonth, to examine a mine. I didn’t think I’d take thejob. I wanted to go to Mexico. But now, of course, itwill be Nevada, and I’ll want you to go with me. Doyou know that country?”

A strange expression lightened the Indian’s face foran instant.

“When I killed my first meat,” he said, “I couldwalk from the kill to the city by the river. My father’s tent was no more distant than it is from here tothe great city yonder. Not so far, I think. The waywas rough with many hills.”

Impulsively Rawley leaned and stretched out his armtoward the Indian.

“Let’s shake on it. We will go together, and youwill be my partner. Whatever we find is the gift ofmy grandfather, and half of it is yours when we findit. I feel he’d want it that way. Is it a go, JohnnyBuffalo?”

Something very much like a smile stirred the oldman’s lips. He took Rawley’s hand and gave it asolemn shake, once up, once down, as is the way of theIndian.

“It is go. You are like my sergeant when he heldme in his arms and gave me water from his canteen.You are my son. Where you go I will go with you.”

CHAPTER FIVE
A CITY FORSAKEN

The storekeeper at Nelson stood on his little slant-roofedporch and mopped his beaded forehead with ablue calico handkerchief. The desert wrinkles aroundhis eyes drew together and deepened as he squintedacross the acarpous gulch where a few rough-boardshacks stood forlorn with uncurtained windows, tothe heat-ridden hillside beyond.

“It’s going to be awful hot down there by theriver,” he observed deprecatingly. “You’ll find thewater pretty muddy—but maybe you know that.Strangers don’t always; it’s best to make sure, so ifyou haven’t a bucket or something to settle the waterin, I’d advise you to take one along. I’ve an extraone I could lend you, if you need it.”

“We have a bucket, thanks.” Rawley stepped intothe dust-covered car loaded with camp outfit. “ElDorado is right at the mouth of the canyon, isn’t it?”

The storekeeper gave him an odd look. “This isEl Dorado,” he answered drily. “This whole canyonis the El Dorado. There used to be a town at themouth of the canyon, but that’s gone years ago. Better take the left-hand road when you get down here aquarter of a mile or so. That will take you past theTechatticup Mine. Below there, turn to the rightwhere two shacks stand close together in the fork ofthe road. The other trail’s washed, and I don’t knowas you could get down that way. Car in good shape forthe pull back? She’s pretty steep, coming this way.”

“She’s pulled everything we’ve struck, so far,” Rawleyreplied cheerfully. “Other cars make it, don’tthey?”

“Some do—and some holler for help. It’s a long,hard drag up the wash. And if you tackle it in thehot part of the day you’ll need plenty of water. And,”the storekeeper added with a whimsical half-smile,“the hot part of the day is any time between sunriseand dark. It does get awful hot down in there! Idon’t mean to knock my own district,” he added, “butI don’t like to see any one start down the canyonwithout knowing about what to expect. Then, if theywant to go, that’s their business.”

“That’s the way to look at it,” Rawley agreed. “Iexpect you’ve been here a good while, haven’t you?”

The storekeeper wiped a fresh collection of beadsfrom his forehead. He looked up and down the canyonrather wistfully.

“About as many years as you are old,” he saidquietly. “I came in here twenty-five years ago.”

Rawley laughed. “I was about a year old whenyou landed. Seems a long while back, to me.” Hestepped on the starter, waved his hand to the storekeeperand went grinding away down the steep trailthrough the loose sand. Johnny Buffalo, sitting besidehim, lifted a hand and laid it on his arm.

“Stop! He calls,” he said.

Rawley stopped the car, his head tilted outward,looking back. The storekeeper was coming down thetrail toward them.

“I forgot to tell you there’s a bad Indian loose inthe hills somewhere along the river,” he panted whenhe came up. “He’s waylaid a couple of prospectorsthat we know of. A blood feud against the whites, theIndians tell me. You may not run across him at all,but it will be just as well to keep an eye out.”

“What’s his name?” Johnny Buffalo turned hishead and stared hard at the other.

“His name’s Queo. He’s middle-aged—somewherein the late forties, I should say. Medium-sizedand kind of stocky built. He’ll kill to get grub or tobacco.Seeing there’s two of you he might not tryanything, but I’d be careful, if I were in your place.There’s a price on his head, so if he tries anytricks—” He waved his hand and grinned expressivelyas he turned back to the store.

“He is older than that man thinks,” said JohnnyBuffalo after a silence. “Queo has almost as manyyears as I have. When we were children we fought.He is bad. For him to kill is pleasure, but he is acoward.”

“If there is a price on his head he has probably leftthe country,” Rawley remarked indifferently. “Old-timersare fine people, most of them. But they do liketo tell it wild to tenderfeet. I suppose that’s humannature.”

Johnny Buffalo did not argue the point. He seemedcontent to gaze at the hills in the effort to locate oldlandmarks. And as for Rawley himself, his mindwas wholly absorbed by his mission into the country,which he had dreamed of for more than a month.There had been some delay in getting started. First,he could not well curtail the length of his visit with hismother, in spite of the fact that they seemed to havelittle in common. Then he thought it wise to makethe trip to Kingman and report upon a property therewhich was about to be sold for a good-sized fortune.The job netted him several hundred dollars,which he was likely to need. Wherefore he hadof necessity had plenty of time to dream over hisown fortune which might be lying in the hills—“Inthe cleft of the jagged rocks”—waiting for him tofind it.

Just at first he had been somewhat skeptical. Fiftyyears is a long time for gold to remain hidden in thehills of a mining country so rich as Nevada, withoutsome prospector discovering it. But Johnny Buffalobelieved. Whether his belief was based solely uponhis faith in his sergeant, Rawley could not determine.But Johnny Buffalo had a very plausible argument infavor of the gold remaining where Grandfather Kinghad left it in the underground stream.

The fact that Rawley was exhorted to “take victualsfor the journey” meant a distance of a good manymiles, perhaps, which they must travel from El Dorado.Then, they were to go to the top of a very high mountainand pass over on the other side. Johnny Buffaloargued that the start was to be made from El Doradomerely because the mountain would be most visiblefrom that point. It would be rough country, he contended.The code mentioned cliffs and great heaps ofstones and clefts in jagged rocks, with a deep pit, “Hidfrom the eyes of all living,” for the final goal. Hethought it more than likely that Grandfather King’sgold mine was still undiscovered. And toward the last,Rawley had been much more inclined to believe him.He had read diligently all the mining information hecould get concerning this particular district, as farback as the records went. Nowhere was any mentionmade of such a rich placer discovery on—or in—amountain.

He was thinking all this as he drove the devioustwistings and turnings of the canyon road. Anothermine or two they passed; then, nosing carefully downa hill steeper than the others, they turned sharply to theleft and were in the final discomfort of the “wash.”A veritable sweat box it was on this particular hotafternoon in July. The baked, barren hills rose closeon either side. Like a deep, gravelly river bed longsince gone dry, the wash sloped steeply down towardthe Colorado. Rawley could readily understand nowthe solicitude of the storekeeper. The return was quitelikely to be a time of tribulation.

He had expected to come upon a camp of some sort.But the canyon opened bleakly to the river, the hotsand of its floor sloping steeply to meet the lappingwaves of the turgid stream. At the water’s edge, onthe first high ground of the bank, were ruins of an oldstamp mill, which might have been built ten years agoor a hundred, so far as looks went.

He left the car and climbed upon the cement floorof the old mill. What at first had seemed to be agreater extension of the plant he now discovered wasa walled roadway winding up to the crest of the hill.He swung about and gazed to the northward, as theBible code had commanded that he should travel. Amile or so up the river were the walls of a deep canyon,—BlackCanyon, according to his map. Farther away,set back from the river a mile, perhaps two miles, asharp-pointed hill shouldered up above its fellows.This seemed to be the highest mountain, so far as hecould see, in that direction. If that were the “greatand high mountain” described in the code, their journeywould not be so long as Johnny Buffalo anticipated.

The nearer view was desolation simmering in theheat. A hundred yards away, on the opposite bankof the wash, the forlorn ruins of a cabin or two gavemelancholy evidence that here men had once workedand laughed and loved—perchance. He looked atthe furnace yawning beside him, and at the muddywater swirling in drunken haste just below. It mighthave been just here that his grandfather had landedfrom the steamboat Gila and had watched the lovelyyoung half-breed girl in the crowd come to welcomethe boat and passengers.

He started when Johnny Buffalo spoke at his elbow.How the Indian had reached that spot unheard andunseen Rawley did not know. Johnny Buffalo waspointing to the north.

“I think that high mountain is where we must go,”he said. “It is one day’s travel. We can go to-daywhen the sun is behind the mountains, and we canwalk until the stars are here. Very early in the morningwe can walk again, and before it is too hot we canreach the trees where it will be cool.”

“We have a lot of grub and things in the car,”Rawley objected. “It seems to me that it wouldn’tbe a bad plan to carry the stuff up here and cache itsomewhere in this old mill. Then if your friend Queoshould show up, there won’t be so much for him tosteal. And if we want to make a camp on the mountain,we can come down here and carry the stuff upas we need it. There’s a hundred dollars’ worth ofoutfit in that car, Johnny,” he added frugally. “I’mall for keeping it for ourselves.”

Johnny Buffalo looked at the mountain, and helooked down at the car,—and then grunted a reluctantacquiescence. Rawley laughed at him.

“That’s all right—the mountain won’t run awayover night,” he bantered, slapping his hand down onJohnny Buffalo’s shoulder with an affectionate familiaritybred in the past month. “I’ve been jugglingthat car over the desert trails since sunrise, and Iwouldn’t object to taking it easy for a few hours.”

Johnny Buffalo said no more but began helping tounload the car. It was he who chose the trail by whichthey carried the loads to the upper level, cement-floored,where no tracks would show. He chose ahiding place beneath the wreckage of some machinerythat had fallen against the bank in such a way that anopen space was left beneath, large enough to hold theiroutfit.

A huge rattlesnake protested stridently against beingdisturbed. Rawley drew his automatic, meaning toshoot it; but Johnny Buffalo stopped him with a warninggesture, and himself killed the snake with a rock.While it was still writhing with a smashed head, hepicked it up by the tail, took a long step or two andheaved it into the river, grinning his satisfaction overa deed well done.

Rawley, standing back watching him, had a swiftvision of the old Indian paddling solemnly about theyard near the west wing. There he was an incongruousfigure amongst the syringas and the roses. Here, althoughhe had discarded the showy fringed buckskinfor the orthodox brown khaki clothes of the desert,he somehow fitted into his surroundings and becamea part of the wilderness itself. Johnny Buffalo wasassuredly coming into his own.

CHAPTER SIX
TRAILS MEET

By sunrise they were ready for the trail, light packsand filled canteens slung upon their shoulders. Thecar was backed against the bluff that would shade itfrom the scorching sunlight from early afternoon tosundown. Beside it were the embers of a mesquite-woodfire where they had boiled coffee and fried baconin the cool of dawn. As a safeguard against the lossof his car, Rawley had disconnected the breaker pointsfrom the distributor and carried them, carefullywrapped, in his pocket. There would be no moving ofthe car under its own power until the points were replaced.And Johnny Buffalo had advised leaving a fewthings in the car, to ward off suspicion that their outfithad been cached. Furthermore, he had cunninglyobliterated their tracks through the deep, fine sand tothe ruins of the stamp mill. Even the keen, predatoryeyes of an outlaw Indian could scarcely distinguishany trace of their many trips that way.

They crossed the wash, turned into the remnant ofan old road leading up the bank to the level above, andfollowed a trail up the river. Once Johnny Buffalostopped and pointed down the bank.

“The ferryboat went there,” he explained. “Muchland has been eaten by the river since last I saw thisplace. Many houses stood here. They are gone. Allis gone. My people are gone, like the town. OfQueo only have I heard, and him the white men huntas they hunt the wolf.”

Rawley nodded, having no words for what he felt.There was something inexpressibly melancholy in thisdesolation where his grandfather had found riotouslife. Of the fortunes gathered here, the fortunes lost—ofthe hopes fulfilled and the hopes crushed slowlyin long, monotonous days of toil and disappointment—whatman could tell? Only the river, rushing heedlesslypast as it had hurried, all those years ago, tomeet the lumbering little river boats struggling againstit* current with their burden of human emotions, onlythe river might have told how the town was born,—andhow it had died. Or the grim hills standing thereas they had stood since the land was in the making,looking down with saturnine calm upon the puny endeavorsof men whose lives would soon enough ceaseupon earth and be forgotten. Rawley’s boot toestruck against something in the loose gravel,—a child’sshoe with the toe worn to a gaping mouth, the heelworn down to the last on the outer edge: dry asa bleached bone, warped by many a storm, blackened,doleful. Even a young man setting out in quest of hisfortune, with a picturesque secret code in his pocket,may be forgiven for sending a thought after the childwho had scuffed that coarse little shoe down here inEl Dorado.

But presently Johnny Buffalo, leading the waybriskly, his sharp old eyes taking in everything withintheir range as if he were eagerly verifying his memoriesof the place, turned from the trail along the riverand entered the hills. His moccasined feet clungtenaciously to the steep places where Rawley’s high-lacedmining boots slipped. The sun rays struck themfiercely and the “little stinging gnats” which GrandfatherKing had mentioned in his diary were there topester them, poising vibrantly just before the eyes asif they waited only the opportunity to dart betweenthe lids.

The thought that perhaps his grandfather had comethat way, fifty years ago, filled the toil of climbing upthe long gully with a peculiar interest. Fifty yearsago these hills must have looked much the same. Fiftyyears ago, the prospect holes they passed occasionallymay have been fresh-turned earth and rocks. Mensearching for rich silver and gold might have been seenplodding along the hillsides; but the hills themselvescould not have changed much. His grandfather hadlooked upon all this, and had divided his thoughts,perhaps, between the gold and his latest infatuation,the half-breed girl, Anita. And suddenly Rawley puta vague speculation into words:

“Hey, Johnny! Here’s a good place to make asmoke, in the shade.” He waited until the Indian hadretraced the dozen steps between them. “Johnny, therewas a beautiful half-breed girl here, when Grandfathermade his last trip up the river. She was half Spanish.My grandfather mentioned her once or twice in hisdiary. Do you remember her?”

“There were many beautiful girls in my tribe,”Johnny Buffalo retorted drily. “What name did hecall her?”

“Anita. It’s a pretty name, and it proves the Spanish,I should say.”

The old man stared at the opposite slope. His mouthgrew thin-lipped and stern.

“My uncle, the chief, was betrayed in his old age.His youngest squaw loved a Spanish man with noblelook. I have the tale from my older brothers, whotold me. The child she bore was the child of theSpanish gentleman. My uncle’s youngest squaw—died.”Johnny Buffalo paused significantly. “Thechild was given to my mother to keep. Her name wasAnita. She was very beautiful. I remember. Manyvisits Anita made with friends near this place. I thinkshe is the same. It was not good for my sergeantto look upon her with love. I have heard my brotherswhisper that Anita looked with soft eyes upon thewhite soldiers.”

Rawley’s young sympathies suffered a definite revulsion.If his grandfather’s dulce corazon were acoquette, her fruitless waiting for his return was notso beautifully tragic after all. There were other whitesoldiers stationed along the river, Rawley remembered,with a curl of the lip. His romantic imagination hadnot balked at the savage blood in her veins, since shewas a beauty of fifty years ago. But he was a sturdy-souledyouth with very old-fashioned notions concerningvirtue. He finished his smoke and went on, feelingcheated by the cold facts he had almost forced fromJohnny Buffalo.

They reached the head of that gulch, climbed a steep,high ridge where they must use hands as well as feetin the climbing, and dug heels into the earth in adescent even steeper. Rawley told himself once thathe would just as soon start out to follow a crowthrough this country as to follow Johnny Buffalo.One word had evidently been omitted from the Indian’sEnglish education by Grandfather King,—theword “detour.” Rawley thought of the straight-forwardmarch of locusts he had once read about andwondered if Johnny Buffalo had taken lessons fromthem in his youth.

However, he consoled himself with the thought thata straight line to the mountain would undoubtedlyshorten the distance. If the Indian could climb sneerwalls of rock like a lizard, Rawley would attempt tofollow. And they would ultimately arrive at their destination,though the glimpse he had obtained of themountain from the ridge they had just crossed failedto confirm Johnny Buffalo’s assertion that it was oneday’s travel. They had been walking three hours byRawley’s watch, and the mountain looked even fartheraway than from El Dorado. But Johnny Buffalo wasso evidently enjoying every minute of the hike throughhis native hills that Rawley could not bear to spoilhis pleasure by even hinting that he was blazing amighty rough trail.

They were working up another tortuous ravinewhere not even Johnny Buffalo could always keep astraight line by the sun. In places the walls overhungthe gulch in shelving, weather-worn cliffs of softlimestone. Bowlders washed down from the heightsmade slow going, because they were half the timeclimbing over or around some huge obstruction; andbecause of the rattlesnakes they must look well where ahand or a foot was laid. Johnny Buffalo was still in thelead; and Rawley, for all his youth and splendid staminawas not finding the Indian too slow a pacemaker.Indeed, he was perfectly satisfied when the dozen feetbetween them did not lengthen to fifteen or twenty.

The mounting sun made the heat in that gully aterrific thing to endure. But the Indian did not liftthe canteen to his mouth; nor did Rawley. Both hadlearned the foolishness of drinking too freely at thebeginning of a journey. So, when Johnny Buffalostopped suddenly in the act of passing around a juttingledge, Rawley halted in his tracks and waited to seewhat was the reason.

The Indian glanced back at him and crooked a forefinger.Rawley set one foot carefully between tworocks, planted the other as circ*mspectly, and so, withouta sound, stole up to Johnny Buffalo’s side. Johnnywaited until their shoulders touched then leaned forwardand pointed.

Up on the ridge a couple of hundred yards beforethem, a man moved crouching behind a bush, came intothe open, bent lower and peered downward. Hisactions were stealthy; his whole manner inexpressiblyfurtive. His back was toward them, and the ridgeitself hid the thing he was stalking.

“He’s after a deer, maybe. Or a mountain sheep,”Rawley whispered, when the man laid a rifle across arock and settled lower on his haunches.

“Still, it is well that we see what he sees,” JohnnyBuffalo whispered back. “We will stalk him as hestalks his kill.”

The Indian squirmed his shoulder out of the strapsling that held his rifle in its case behind him. Withseeming deliberation, yet with speed he uncased theweapon, worked the lever gently to make sure the gunwas chamber loaded, and motioned Rawley to followhim.

In the hills the old man had somehow slipped intothe leadership, and now Rawley obeyed him withouta word. They stole up the side of the gulch where theman on the ridge could not discover them without turningcompletely around; which would destroy his position beside the rock and risk the loss of a shot at hisgame. He seemed wholly absorbed in watching somethingon the farther side of the ridge, and it did notseem likely that he would hear them.

A little farther up, a ledge cutting across the headof the gulch hid him completely from the two. Animpulse seized Rawley to cross the gulch there and toclimb the ridge farther on, nearer the spot which theman had seemed to be watching. He caught the attentionof Johnny Buffalo, whispered to him his desire,and received a nod of understanding and consent.Johnny would keep straight on, and so come up behindthe fellow.

Unaccountably, Rawley wanted to hurry. Hewanted to see the man’s quarry before a shot was fired.So, when a wrinkle in the ridge made easy climbingand afforded concealment, he went up a tiny gully,digging in his toes and trying to keep in the softground so that sliding rocks could not betray him.

Unexpectedly the deep wrinkle brought him up to anotch in the ridge, beyond which another gully ledsteeply downward. Immediately beneath him a narrowtrail wound sinuously, climbing just beyond around thepoint of another hill. He could not see the man up onthe ridge, but he could not doubt that the rifle wasaimed at some point along this trail. He was standingon a rock, reconnoitering and expecting every momentto hear a shot, when the unmistakable sound of voicescame up to him from somewhere below. He listened,his glance going from the ridge to the bit of trail thatshowed farther away on the point of the opposite hill.The thought flashed through his mind that the manwith the rifle could easily have seen persons comingaround that point; that he must be lying in wait. Whoeverit was coming, they must pass along the traildirectly beneath the watcher on the ridge. It would bean easy rifle shot; a matter of no more than a hundredyards downhill.

He stepped down off the rock and started runningdown the steep gully to the trail. He was, he judged,fully a hundred yards up the trail from where the manwas watching above. He did not know who was coming;it did not matter. It was an ambush, and hemeant to spoil it. So he came hurtling down the steepdeclivity, the lower third of which was steeper thanhe suspected. Had he made an appointment with thetravelers to meet them at that spot, he could not possiblyhave kept it more punctually. For he slid downa ten-foot bank of loose earth and arrived sitting uprightin the trail immediately under the nose of a bald-facedburro with a distended pack half covering it fromsight.

There was no time for ceremony. Rawley flungup his arms and shooed the astonished animal backagainst another burro, so precipitately that he crowdedit completely off the trail and down the steep bank.Rawley heard the sullen thud of the landing as hescrambled to his knees, glancing apprehensively overhis shoulder as he did so. There had been no shotfired, but he could not be certain that the small flurryin the trail had been unobserved.

“Get back, around the turn!” he commandedguardedly and drove before him the two women whohad been walking behind the burros.

The first, a fat old squaw with gray bangs hangingstraight down to her eyebrows, scuttled for cover, thelead burro crowding past her and neatly overturningher in the trail. But a slim girl in khaki breechesand high-laced boots stood her ground, eyeing himwith a slight frown from under a light gray Stetsonhat.

“Get back, I say! A man on the ridge is watchingthis trail with a rifle across a rock. It may be Queo—getback!” He did not stop with words. He took thegirl by the arm and bustled her forcibly around thesharp kink in the trail that would, he hoped, effectuallyhide them from the ridge.

“Are you quite insane?” The girl twitched herarm out of his grasp. “Or is this a joke you areperpetrating on the natives? I must say I fail to seethe humor of it.”

“Climb that gully to the top and sneak along theridge a couple of hundred yards, and you will see thepoint of the joke,” Rawley retorted with an access ofdignity, perhaps to cover the extreme informality of hisarrival.

“And why should any one—even Queo—want toshoot us?” True to her sex, the girl was refusing toabdicate her first position in the matter.

“How should I know? He may not be watching foryou, particularly. From the ridge he probably sawyour pack train around the turn above here, and hemay have thought you were prospectors. I don’t know;I’m only guessing. What I do know is what I saw: aman with a rifle laid across a rock, up there, watchingthis trail. It may not be you he’s after; but I wouldn’tdeliberately walk into range just to find out.”

“What would you do, then? Stay here forever?”

“Until my partner and I eliminate the risk, you’dbetter stay here.” Rawley’s tone was masterful. “Ionly came down to warn whoever was coming—walkinginto an ambush.”

The girl eyed him speculatively, with an exasperatinglittle smile. “It all sounds very thrilling; verytenderfooty indeed. And in the meantime, there’s poorold Deacon down there on his back in the ditch. Doyou always—er—arrive like that?”

Rawley turned his back on her indignantly and discoveredthe old squaw sitting solidly where the leadburro had placed her. She was very fat, and shefilled that portion of the trail which she occupied. Thered bandana was pushed back on her head, and her graycurtain of bangs was parted rakishly on one side. Shewas staring at Rawley fixedly, a look of terror in hereyes.

He went to her, meaning to help her up. Now thathe recalled that first panicky moment, he rememberedthat the burro had deposited her with some force in herpresent position. She might be hurt.

But the old squaw put up her hands before her,palms out to ward him off. She cried out, a shrill expostulationin her own tongue which caused the girlto swing round quickly and hurry toward her.

“No, no! He isn’t a ghost! Whatever made youthink of such a thing? He doesn’t mean to harmyou—no, he is not a spirit. He merely fell down hill,and he wants to help you up. Are you hurt—Grandmother?”Her clear, gray-brown eyes wentquickly, defiantly to Rawley’s face.

That young man could not repress a startled look,which traveled from the slim girl, indubitably white, tothe squaw whimpering in the trail. She must be tryingher own hand at a joke, he thought, just to break evenwith his fancied presumption in halting their leisurelyprogress down the trail.

From up on the ridge a rifle cracked. The threeturned heads toward the thin, sinister report. Theywaited motionless for a moment. Then the girlspoke.

“That wasn’t fired in our direction,” she said, andimmediately there came the sound of another shot.“And that’s not the same gun,” she added. “Thatsounds like an old-fashioned gun shooting black powder.Didn’t you hear the pow-w of it?”

“That would be Johnny Buffalo—my Indian partner,” said Rawley. “You folks stay here. I’m goingback up there and see what’s doing.”

“Is that necessary?” The girl looked at himquickly. “I think you ought to help turn Deaconright side up before you go.” She leaned sidewise andpeered down over the bank. “He’s in an awful mess.His pack is wedged between two bowlders, and hislegs are sticking straight up in the air.”

Rawley sent a hasty glance down the bank. “He’sall right—he’s flopping his ears,” he observed reassuringly.“I’ll be back just as soon as I see howJohnny Buffalo is making out. That fellow may havegot him. You stay back here out of sight. Promiseme.” He looked at her earnestly, as if by the force ofhis will he would compel obedience.

Her eyes evaded the meeting. “Pickles will haveto be rounded up,” she said. “He’s probably halfwayto Nelson by this time. And there’s Grandmotherto think of.”

“Well, you think of those things until I get back,”he said, with a swift smile. “I can’t leave my partnerto shoot it out alone.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
NEVADA

He ran to the point of rocks, gathered himself togetherand cleared the trail and the open space beyondin one leap. How he got up the steep bank he neverremembered afterward. He only knew that he heardthe sharp crack of the first rifle again as he was sprintingup the little gully that had concealed his descent.He gained the top, stopped to get his bearings moreaccurately and made his way toward the spot wherehe had seen the man with the rifle.

It occurred to him that he had best approach thespot from the shelter of the ledge where he had separatedfrom Johnny Buffalo. At that point he couldpick up the Indian’s tracks and follow them, so savingtime in the long run.

Johnny Buffalo’s moccasins left little trace in thegravelly soil. But here and there they left a mark,and Rawley got the direction and hurried on. Fiftyyards farther up the ridge he glimpsed something yellowish-brownagainst a small juniper. A few feetfarther, he saw that it was Johnny Buffalo, lying onhis face, one arm thrown outward with the hand stillgrasping the stock of his rifle.

He snatched up the rifle, crouched beside the Indianand searched the neighborhood with his eyes, tryingto get a sight of the killer. In a moment he spied him,away down the deep ravine up which he and JohnnyBuffalo had toiled not half an hour before. The manwas running. Rawley raised the rifle to his shoulder,took careful aim and fired, but he had small hope ofhitting his target at that distance.

At the sound of the shot so close above him, JohnnyBuffalo stirred uneasily, as if disturbed in his sleep.The man in the distance ducked out of sight amongstthe bowlders; and that was the last Rawley saw of himat that time.

“I must apologize for not taking you more seriouslywhen you warned me,” said the girl, just behind him.“Is this—?”

“My partner, Johnny Buffalo. He isn’t dead—hemoved, just now—but I’m afraid he’s badly hurt.”Rawley lifted anxious blue eyes to her face.

“We can carry him down to the trail. Then, ifDeacon is all right when we get him up, we can putyour partner on him and pack him home. It’s only amile or so.”

“It might be better to take him to Nelson,” Rawleyamended the suggestion. “I could get a car thereand take him on to Las Vegas, probably. Or somemine will have a doctor.”

“It’s farther—and the heat, with the long ride,would probably finish him,” the girl pointed outbluntly. “On the other hand, a mile on the burrowill get him home, where it’s cool and we can see howbadly he’s hurt. And then, if he needs hospital care,Uncle Peter can take him down to Needles in thelaunch, this evening when it’s cool. I really don’tmean to be disagreeable and argumentative, but itseems to me that will be much the more comfortableplan for him. And I can’t help feeling responsible, ina way. I suppose he was trying to protect us, whenhe was shot.”

Rawley looked up from an amateurish examinationof the old man. The bullet wound was in the shoulder,and he was hoping that it was high enough so thatthe lung was not injured. His flask of brandy, placedat Johnny’s lips, brought a gulp and a gasp. Theblack eyes opened, looked from Rawley to the girl andclosed again.

“There! I believe he’s going to be all right,” thegirl declared optimistically. “I’ll take his feet, andyou carry his shoulders. When we get him down tothe trail, I’ll have Grandmother look after him untilwe get the burros straightened out. Queo—or whoeverit was—did you see him?”

Rawley waved a hand toward the rocky ravine.“You heard me shoot,” he reminded her. “Missedhim—with that heirloom Johnny carries. He wasrunning like a jackrabbit when I saw him last. Well,I think you’re right—but I hate to trouble you folks.Though I’d trouble the president himself, for JohnnyBuffalo’s sake.”

“It’s a strange name,” she remarked irrelevantly,stooping and making ready to lift his knees. “He mustbe a Northern Indian.”

“Born in this district,” Rawley told her. “Grandfatherfound him in the desert when he was a kid. Isuppose he gave him the name—regardless.”

Until they reached the trail there was no further talk,their breath being needed for something more important.They laid the injured man down in the shadeof a greasewood, and the girl immediately left to bringthe old squaw. She was no sooner gone than JohnnyBuffalo opened his eyes.

“It was Queo,” he said, huskily whispering. “Ithought he was shooting at you. I tried to kill him.But the damn gun is old—old. It struck me hard.I did not shoot straight. I did not kill him. Queolooked, he saw me and he shot as he ran away. Thegun has killed many—but I am old—”

“You’re all right,” Rawley interrupted. “Quitblaming yourself. You saved two women by shootingwhen you did. Queo was afraid to stay and shootagain when he knew there was a gun at his back. Hehas gone down the ravine where we came up.”

“Who was the white girl?” Even Johnny Buffalobetrayed a very masculine interest, Rawley observed,grinning inwardly. But he only said:

“I don’t know. She was on the trail, with an oldsquaw and two burros. It was they that Queo waslaying for, evidently. Don’t try to talk any more, tillI get you where we can look after you properly.Where’s your pack? I didn’t see it, up there.”

“It is hidden in the juniper. I did not want to fightwith a load on my back.”

“All right. Don’t talk any more. We’ll fix you up,all fine as silk.”

The girl was returning, and after her waddled thesquaw, reluctant, looking ready to retreat at the firstsuspicious move. Rawley stood aside while the girlgave her brief directions in Indian,—so that JohnnyBuffalo could understand, Rawley shrewdly suspected,and thanked her with his eyes. The squaw sidled pastRawley and sat down on the bank, still staring at himfixedly. His abrupt appearance and the consequentstampede of the burros had evidently impressed herunfavorably. The look she bestowed upon JohnnyBuffalo was more casual. He was an Indian andtherefore understandable, it seemed.

The narrow canyon lay sun-baked and peaceful tothe hard blue of the sky. With the lightness whichcame of removing the pack from his shoulders, Rawleywalked up the trail and around the turn to wherethe burro called Deacon still lay patiently on his backin the narrow watercourse below the trail. He sliddown the bank and inspected the lashings of the pack.

“We use what is called the squaw hitch,” the girlinformed him from the trail just above his head. “Ifyou cut that forward rope I think you can loosen thewhole thing. The knot is on top of the pack, and ofcourse Deacon’s lying on it.” A moment later sheadded, “I’ll go after Pickles, unless I can be of someuse to you.”

Privately, Rawley thought that she was useful as arelief to the eyes, if nothing else. But he told herthat he could get along all right, and let her go. Thegirl piqued his interest; she was undoubtedly beautiful,with her slim, erect figure, her clear, hazel eyes withstraight eyebrows, heavy lashes, and her lips that werefirm for all their soft curves. But Johnny Buffalo’slife might be hanging on Rawley’s haste. Howeverbeautiful, however much she might attract his interest,no girl could tempt him from the chief issue.

By the time she returned with Pickles, Rawley hadretrieved Deacon and was gone down the trail withhim. She came up in time to help him lift JohnnyBuffalo on the burro and tie him there with the packrope. She was efficient as a man, and almost as strong,Rawley observed. And although she treated the squawwith careful deference, she was plainly the head of theirlittle expedition,—and the shoulders and the brains.

Only once did the squaw speak on the way to theriver. The girl was walking alongside Deacon,steadying Johnny Buffalo on that side while Rawleyheld the other. They were talking easily now, of impersonalthings; and when, on a short climb, the burrostepped sharply to one side and Johnny Buffalolurched toward the girl, Rawley slipped his arm fartherbehind the Indian. His fingers clasped for an instantthe girl’s hand. The squaw, walking heavily behind,saw the brief contact.

“Nevada! You shall not be so bold,” she cried inPahute. “Take away your hand from the white man.”

The girl turned her head and answered sharply inthe same tongue and afterwards smiled across at Rawley,meeting his eyes with perfect frankness.

“Yes, my name is Nevada. I’ll save you the troubleof asking,” she said calmly. “El Dorado Nevada Macalister,if you want it all at once. Luckily, no one everattempts to call me all of it. My parents were loyal,romantic, and had an ear for euphony.”

“Were?” The small impertinence slipped out inspite of Rawley; but fortunately she did not seem tomind.

“Yes. My father was caught in a cave-in in theQuartette Mine when I was a baby. Mother diedwhen I was six. I have a beautiful, impractical name—andnot much else—to remember them by. I’velived with Grandfather and Grandmother; except, ofcourse, what time I have been in school.” She gavehim another quick look behind Johnny Buffalo’s back.“And your autobiography?”

“Mine is more simple and not so interesting.Name, George Rawlins King. Place of birth, a suburbof St. Louis. Occupation, mining engineer. Presentavocation, prospecting during my vacation. My ideaof play, you see, is to get out here in the heat andsnakes and work at my trade—for myself.”

“And Johnny Buffalo?”

“Oh, he just came along. Hadn’t seen this countrysince he was a kid and wanted to get back, I suppose,on his old stamping ground. He lived with Grandfather.But Grandfather died a few weeks ago, andJohnny and I have sort of thrown in together. Now,I suppose our prospecting trip is all off—for thepresent, anyway.”

“This country has been gone over with a microscope,almost,” said Nevada. “I suppose there ismineral in these hills yet, but it must be pretty wellhidden. The country used to swarm with prospectors,but they seem to have got disgusted and quit. Thewar in Europe, of course, has created a market—”She stopped and laughed with chagrin. “Of course alady desert rat like me can give a mining engineervaluable information concerning markets and economicconditions in general!”

“I’m always glad to talk shop,” Rawley declaredtactfully.

But Nevada fell silent and would not talk at allduring the remainder of the journey.

CHAPTER EIGHT
“HIM THAT IS—MINE ENEMY”

Their progress was necessarily slow, and Nevada’s“mile or so” seemed longer. Johnny Buffalo remainedno more than half-conscious and breathedpainfully. Nevada invented a makeshift sunshadefor him, breaking off and trimming a drooping greasewoodbranch and borrowing the squaw’s apron tospread over it. This Rawley held awkwardly withone hand while he steadied the swaying figure withthe other, and so they came at last abruptly to theriver he had left at sunrise.

The trail dipped down steeply to a small basin thatoverlooked the river possibly a hundred feet below.The canyon walls rose bold and black beyond,—sheercrags of rock with here and there a brush-filled crevice.Around the barren rim of the basin two or threecrude shacks were set within easy calling distance ofone another, and three or four swarthy, unkempt childrenaccompanied by nondescript dogs rushed forthto greet the newcomers.

The old squaw waddled forward and drove the dogsfrom the heels of the burro called Pickles, which lashedout and sent one cur yelping to the nearest shack. Thechildren halted abruptly and stared at the two strangersopen-mouthed, retreating slowly backward, unwillingto lose sight of them for an instant.

Rawley stole a glance at Nevada, just turning hiseyes under his heavy-lashed lids. A furtive look directedat his face was intercepted, and the red suffusedher cheeks. Then her head lifted proudly.

“My uncle’s children are not accustomed to seeingpeople,” she explained evenly. “Strangers seldomcome here, and the children have never been away fromhome. Please forgive their bad manners.”

“Kids are honest in their manners,” Rawley replied,“and that’s more than grown-ups can say. I reckonthese youngsters wonder what the deuce has been takingplace. I’d want an eyeful, myself, if I were intheir places.”

Nevada did not answer but led the way past theshacks, which did not look particularly inviting, to arock-faced building with screened porch that faced theriver, its back pushed deep into the hill behind it. Rawleygave her a grateful glance. He did not need to betold that this was the quietest, coolest place in the basin.

“We’ll make him as comfortable as we can, andI’ll send for Uncle Peter,” she said, as they stoppedbefore the door. She called to the oldest of the children,a boy, and spoke to him rapidly in Indian. Itseemed to Rawley that she was purposely emphasizingher bizarre relationship.

A younger squaw—or so she looked to be—camefrom a shack, a fat, solemn-eyed baby riding her hip.Her hair was wound somehow on top of her head andheld there insecurely with hairpins half falling out andcheap, glisteny side combs. A second glance convincedRawley that she had white man’s blood in herveins, but her predominant traits were Indian, hejudged; except that she lacked the Indian aloofness.

“Mr. King, this is my Aunt Gladys—Mrs. Cramer,”Nevada announced distinctly. “Aunt Gladys,Queo shot Mr. King’s partner, who had discovered himlying in wait for Grandmother and me and was tryingto protect us. Mr. King ran down to the trail towarn us, while his partner crept up behind Queo. Hefired, after Queo had shot at us, but he thinks hemissed altogether. At any rate Queo shot him. SoGrandmother and I brought him on home. He savedour lives, and we must try to save his.”

Aunt Gladys ducked her unkempt head, grinned awkwardlyat Rawley, who lifted his hat to her—andthereby embarrassed her the more—and hitched thebaby into a new position on her hip.

“Whadda yuh think ol’ Jess’ll say?” she asked, inan undertone. “My, ain’t it awful, the way thatQueo is acting up? Is there anything I can do? Itwon’t take but a few minutes to start a fire and heatwater.”

They had eased Johnny Buffalo from the burro’sback to the broad doorstep, which was shaded by thewide eaves of the porch. Now they were preparing tocarry him in, feet first so that Nevada could lead theway. She turned her head and nodded approval of thesuggestion. So Aunt Gladys, after lingering to watchthe wounded man’s removal, departed to her ownshack, shooing her progeny before her.

Rawley had never had much experience with wounds,but he went to work as carefully as possible, getting theold man to bed and ready for ministrations more expertthan his. In a few minutes Nevada came with abasin of water that smelled of antiseptic. Very matter-of-factlyshe helped him wash the wound.

“I think that is as much as we can do until UnclePeter comes,” she said when they had finished. “He’sthe one who always looks after hurts in the family.”She left the room and did not return again.

With nothing to do but sit beside the bed, Rawleyfound himself dwelling rather intently upon thestrangeness of the situation. From the name spokenby Nevada, he knew that he must be in the camp of theenemy. At least, Jess Cramer was the name of Grandfather’srival who figured unfortunately in that Fourthof July fight away back in ’66, and there was furthermorethe warning of the code, “Take heed now...on the hillside...which is upon the bank of theriver...in the wilderness...ye shall find...him that...is mine enemy.” Rawley had certainlynot expected that the enemy would be Jess Cramer,but it might be so.

He was repeating to himself that other warning,“He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life,” whenNevada’s voice outside brought his attention back to theimmediate exigencies of the case. He had already toldher his name—she had repeated it to that flat-faced,hopelessly uninteresting “Aunt Gladys.” Nevada hadtaken particular pains, he remembered, to tell her auntall about the mishap and to stress the service whichhe and Johnny Buffalo had rendered her and her grandmother.Was it because she wished to have some onebeside herself who was well-disposed toward them?Partly that, he guessed, and partly because the easiestway to forestall curiosity is to give a full explanationat once. In Nevada’s rapid-fire account of the shooting,Rawley fancied that he had unconsciously beengiven a key to the situation and to the disposition ofAunt Gladys. He grinned while he filled his pipe andwaited.

Presently the deep, masculine voice he had heardoutside talking with Nevada ceased, and a firm,measured tread was heard on the porch. A big manpaused for a few seconds in the doorway and thencame forward; a man as tall as Rawley, as broad ofshoulder, as narrow hipped. He was dressed much asRawley was dressed, except that his shirt was ofcheaper, darker material and the breeches were earth-stainedand old, as were his boots. He carried hishead well up and looked down at Rawley calmly, appraisingly,with neither dislike nor favor in his face.He was smooth-shaven, and his jaw was square, hislips firm and somewhat bitter. Rawley rose andbowed and stood back from the bed.

“My niece has told me all about the shooting,” hesaid, moving toward the bed. “I’m not a doctor, butI’ve had some experience with wounds. In this countrywe have to learn to take care of ourselves. Is yourpartner unconscious?”

“Dopey, I’d say. I can rouse him, but it seemedbest to let him be as quiet as possible. He had overan hour in the heat, and the joggling on the burro didn’tdo him any good, I imagine.” Rawley hoped UnclePeter would not think he was staring like an idiot, buthe could not rid himself of the feeling that somewhere,some time, he had seen this man before.

Uncle Peter bent and examined the wound. Whenhe moved Johnny Buffalo a bit, the Indian opened hiseyes and stared hard into his face.

“My sergeant! I did not think to—”

“Out of his head,” Rawley muttered uneasily.“It’s the first symptom of it he’s shown.”

Johnny Buffalo muttered again, pressed his lips togetherand closed his eyes. After that he did notspeak, or give any sign that he heard, though UnclePeter was talking all the while he dressed the wound.

“It’s going to take some time,” he said. “Thebullet broke his shoulder blade, but if the lung istouched at all it was barely grazed. Nevada spoke ofmy taking him down the river to Needles, but it can’tbe done. The engine in the launch is useless until Ican get a new connecting rod and another part or two.”He stared down at Johnny Buffalo, frowning.

“Well, from all accounts the two of you saved thewomen’s lives to-day,” he said, after a minute of studyingover the situation. “Queo was after the grub,probably—and he’s no particular love for any of us.He undoubtedly knew who was coming down the trail—hemay have watched them go up, just about daybreak.Common gratitude gives the orders, in thiscase. You can stay here until this man is well enoughto ride, or until I can take you to Needles.”

A little more of harshness and his tone would havebeen grudging. Rawley flushed at the implied reluctanceof the offered hospitality.

“It’s mighty good of you, but we don’t want toimpose on any one,” he said stiffly. “If he can stayfor a day or two, I can get out to Needles and bring upa boat of some kind. It’s the only thing I can thinkof—but I can make it in a couple of days.”

The other turned and regarded him much as Nevadahad first done, with a mixture of defiance and pride.His jaw squared, the lines beside his mouth grew morebitter.

“We may be breeds—but we aren’t brutes,” he saidharshly. “You’ll stay where you are and take care ofyour partner. The burden of nursing him can’t fall onthe women.” He stopped and seemed debating somethingwithin himself. “We’ve no reason to open ourarms to outsiders,” he added finally. “If folks let usalone, we let them alone—and glad to do it. Father’stouchy about having strangers in camp. But all rulesmust be broken once, they say.”

“I think you’re over-sensitive,” Rawley told himbluntly. “You’re self-conscious over something noone else would think of twice. It’s—”

“Oh, I know. You needn’t say it. Sounds pretty,but it isn’t worth a damn when you try to put it inpractice. Well, let it drop. I’ll send over some medicineto keep his fever down, and the rest is prettymuch up to nature and the care you give him. It’scool here—that’s a great deal.”

“We’ll be turning out your niece, though, I’m afraid.I can’t do that.” For the first time Rawley was keenlyconscious of the incongruity of his surroundings.Here in a settlement of Indians (he could scarcely putit more mildly, with the dogs and the frowsy papoosesand the two squaws for evidence) one little oasis ofcivilized furnishings spoke eloquently of the whiteblood warring against the red. The room was furnishedcheaply, it is true, and much of the furniturewas homemade; but for all its simplicity there was notone false note anywhere, not one tawdry adornment.It was like the girl herself,—simple, clean-cut, dignified.

“My niece won’t mind. I shall give her my owndugout, which is as comfortable as this. I can findplenty of room to stretch out. Hard work makes asoft bed.” He smiled briefly. Again Rawley wasstruck with a sense of familiarity, of having knownUncle Peter somewhere before.

But before he could put the question the man wasgone, and Johnny Buffalo was looking at him gravely.But he did not speak, and presently his eyes closed.After that, the medicine was handed in by a bashful,beady-eyed boy who showed white teeth and scuddedaway, kicking up hot dust with his bare feet as he ran.

After all, what did it matter? A chance meeting insome near-by town and afterwards forgetfulness.Uncle Peter evidently did not remember him, so themeeting must have been brief and unimportant.

CHAPTER NINE
“A PLEASANT TRIP TO YOU!”

Rawley chanced to look out of the window. Hemuttered something then and strode to the screeneddoor.

“Hey! You aren’t going back up that trail,surely?” He went out hurriedly and took long stepsafter Nevada.

The girl turned and looked at him over her shoulder,flinging back a heavy braid of coppery auburn hair.She had Pickles by his lead rope and was plainly headinginto the trail to Nelson.

“Why, yes. There’s a load of grub beside the trailwhere Deacon upset. I’m going after it.”

Rawley rushed back, seized his hat, sent an anxiousglance toward the bed and then ran. He overtookNevada just at the edge of the basin and stopped herby the simple method of stopping the burro with astrong hand.

“You go back and sit beside Johnny,” he commanded.“I’ll get that grub, myself. And if you’vegot a rifle, I’d like to borrow it.”

“That’s utter nonsense—your going,” Nevada exclaimed.“I meant to take one of the boys—I justsent him in to wash his face, first.”

Rawley laughed. “Do you think a clean face on akid will have any effect on Queo? You’ll both stay athome, please. I’m going.”

“If you’re determined, I can’t very well stop you,”she said coldly. “But I certainly am going. I alwaysdo these things. There’s no possible reason—”

Rawley looked over at the nearest shack, where AuntGladys stood watching them, the baby still on her hip.“Mrs. Cramer, I am going up after the grub we left bythe trail. Will you see that Johnny Buffalo is lookedafter? And will you call Miss Macalister’s grandmother,or whoever has any authority over her?” Hisvoice was stern, but the twinkle in his eyes belied thetone.

Aunt Gladys giggled and hitched the baby up fromits sagging position. “There ain’t nobody but Petercan do nothing with Nevada,” she informed him.“Her gran’paw, maybe—but he don’t pay no attentionhalf the time. You better stay home, Nevada.Queo might shoot you.”

“How perfectly idiotic! Do you suppose he wouldrefrain from shooting Mr. King, but kill me instead?”

“Well, you can’t tell what he might do,” AuntGladys observed sagely. “He’s crazy in the head.”

Rawley laid his fingers on Nevada’s hand, where sheheld Pickles by the bridle. He looked straight intoher eyes, bright with anger. His own eyes pleadedwith her.

“Miss Macalister, please don’t be obstinate. To letyou go back up that trail is unthinkable. I am going,and some one must be with my partner. I can make thetrip well under two hours; there is heavy stuff in thatditch which needs a man’s shoulder under it, gettingit back into the trail. Please stay with Johnny Buffalo,won’t you?”

Nevada hesitated, staring back into his eyes. Herhand slid reluctantly from the bridle. Her lip curledat one corner, though her cheeks flushed contradictorily.

“Masculine superiority asserts itself,” she drawled.“Since I can’t prevent your going, I think, after all,I shall prefer to stay at home. A pleasant trip to you,Mr. King!”

“Thanks for those kind words,” Rawley cried, hisvoice as mocking as hers. “Come on, Pickles, oldson!”

A boy of ten, with his face clean to the point of hisjaws, came running from the shack with a rifle sagginghis right shoulder. Rawley waited until he cameup, then took the rifle, spun the boy half around andgave him a gentle push.

“Thanks, sonny. Ladies and children not allowedon this trip, however. You stay and protect the womenand babies, son. Got to leave a man in camp, youknow. Wounded to look after.”

The boy whirled back, valor overcoming his tongue-tied bashfulness. “Aw, he wouldn’t come here!Gran’paw’d kill ’im. Gran’paw purt’ near did, onetime. I c’n shoot, mister. I c’n hit a rabbit in the eyefrom here to that big rock over there.”

“Yes—well—this isn’t going to be a rabbit hunt.You stay here, sonny.”

“Aw, you’re as bad as Uncle Peter!” the boy mutteredresentfully, kicking small rocks with his baretoes. “I guess you’ll wish I’d come along, if Queogets after you!”

Rawley only laughed and swung up the trail, leadingthe burro behind him, since he was not at all acquaintedwith the beast and had no desire to follow it vainly toNelson, for lack of the proper knowledge to halt itbeside the scene of Deacon’s downfall.

As he went, Rawley scanned the near-by ridges andthe brush along the trail. There was slight chance, accordingto his belief, that the outlaw Indian would venturedown this far, especially since he could not be surehe had failed to kill Johnny Buffalo. On the otherhand, he must have been rather desperate to lie inwait for two women coming home with supplies. Rawleywondered why he had remained up on the ridge;why he had not waited by the trail and robbed them ofsuch things as he needed. Then he remembered Nevada’svery evident ability to whip wildcats, if necessary—certainlyto meet any emergency calmly—andshook his head. The old squaw, too, would probablydo some clawing if the occasion demanded, and sheknew just who and why she was fighting. On thewhole, Rawley decided that Queo had merely borneout Johnny Buffalo’s statement that he was a cowardand had taken no chances. And from the boy’s remarkabout his grandfather nearly killing Queo, he thoughtthe outlaw had not wanted his identity discovered.

As for his own risk, Rawley did not give it a secondthought. Queo had been well scared, finding two menon the job where he had expected to deal only withwomen. He had been headed toward the river whenRawley last saw him. It was more than probable thathe would continue in that direction.

But it is never safe to guess what an Indian will do,—muchless an Indian outlaw who must become a beastof prey if he would live and keep his freedom. Rawleyremembered Johnny Buffalo’s pack and tied Picklesto a bush directly under the spot where the shootinghad taken place, while he climbed the ridge to retrievehis belongings. He brought canteen and pack downto the trail and hung them on the packsaddle, feelingabsolutely secure. The ridge was hot and deserted,even the birds and rabbits having taken cover from theheat.

He went on around the little bend and anchored theburro again while he carried up a sack of potatoes,bacon, flour and a package wrapped in damp canvas,which he guessed to be butter. The tribe of Cramerhad what they wanted to eat, at least, he reflected.Also, the load would have made a nice grubstake forthe outlaw. Two such burro loads would have suppliedQueo for months, adding what game he would undoubtedlykill.

Rawley had just finished packing the burro and hadlooped up the tie rope to send Pickles down the hometrail, when some warning (a sound, perhaps, or aflicker of movement) caused him to look quickly behindhim. He glimpsed a dark, heavy face behind aleveled gun barrel, broken teeth showing in an evilgrin. Rawley threw himself to one side just as thegun belched full at him. Something jerked his leftarm viciously, and a numb warmth stole into thatside.

He dropped forward, his right hand flinging backto his holstered automatic and drawing up convulsivelywith the gun in his hand.

“Thanks for packing the stuff!” chortled Queo, andthe two fired simultaneously.

Both scored hits. The leering, black face sobered andslid slowly out of sight behind the rock. Rawley’shead dropped so that his face lay in the blistering dustof the trail. Through his hat crown a small, singedhole showed in front, a ragged tear opposite at the back.Pickles, scored on the leg with the second shot fromQueo’s gun, kicked savagely with both feet and wentcareening down the trail toward home, his pack wabblingviolently as he galloped.

It was the sight of him trotting down the trail alonethat halted Nevada midway between her rock dugoutand the shack where Gladys was setting steaming disheson the table for the three men who were “washingup” at the bench under the crude porch. Nevada gavea little cry and ran to meet Pickles, and the first thingshe noticed was the fresh, red furrow on his leg, fromwhich the blood was still dripping. Turning to call,she saw Peter coming close behind her, wiping his faceand neck as he walked.

“Oh, Uncle Peter—he’s been shot!” she criedtremulously. “It must be Queo again.”

Peter’s eyes turned to the trail, visible for some distanceup the side hill. There was no one in sight, andwithout a word he turned back to his own house, duginto the hill near Nevada’s, and presently returned,passing the girl with long strides. He carried his rifleand struck into the hill trail bareheaded. Nevadalooked after him, her eyes wide and dark.

An hour later, Peter returned, walking steadily downthe trail with Rawley on his back. Without a wordhe passed the staring group at the shack and carried hisburden into the room where Johnny Buffalo lay in uneasyslumber. A step sounded behind him, and hespoke without turning.

“Have Jess and Gladys bring that spring cot outof my cabin, Nevada. They’ll be more contented in thesame room. He got Queo—I found him behind arock not fifty feet from this chap. Now Queo’s cousinwill take up the feud and get this fellow—if he pullsout of this scrape.”

“Is he badly hurt?” Nevada was holding her voicesteady from sheer will power.

“Arm smashed and a scalp wound. All depends onthe care he gets. Well—” Peter straightened andwiped his forehead, looking thoughtfully at Rawley,half lying in a big chair, his long legs spread limply, hisface white and streaked with blood, “—we owe himgood care, I guess. He must have killed Queo afterhe’d been shot in the arm. And he’s saved this outfitsome trouble. I didn’t tell you—but Queo was layingfor a chance at us. Well—run and get that cot here.”

Nevada pushed back her craning family and sentthem running here and there on errands. Her grandfatherand Jess, the husband of Gladys, looked at herinquiringly from the porch of the shack. Rawleymight have thought it strange that they remained merebystanders during the excitement. But Nevada did notseem to notice their indifference.

“Queo shot him twice—but he killed Queo,” shetold them. “Uncle Jess, you’re to get his spring cot,Uncle Peter says, and fix a bed in there.” Her eyeswent challengingly to her grandfather. “Uncle Petersays we owe them the best care we can give,” shestated clearly. “He says they have saved some lives inthis family.”

The tall, bearded old patriarch looked at her frowningly.He glanced toward the rock cabin, gruntedsomething unintelligible to the girl, and went in to hisinterrupted dinner.

CHAPTER TEN
A FAMILY TREE

It seemed as fantastic as a troubled dream. To belying there helpless, to look across and see JohnnyBuffalo staring grimly up at the ceiling, his face setstoically to hide the pain that burned beneath the whitebandage, held no semblance of reality. Was it thatmorning only, that they had left the car and startedout to walk to the “great and high mountain”? Perhapsseveral days had passed in oblivion. He did notknow. To Rawley the shock of drifting back from unconsciousnessto these surroundings had been as greatas the shock of incredulous slipping down and downinto blackness. He moved his head a half-inch. Thepain brought his eyebrows together, but he made nosound. Johnny Buffalo must not be worried.

“All right again, are you?” Peter moved intoRawley’s range of vision. “You had a close squeak.The thickness of your skull between you and death—thatwas all. The bullet skinned along on the outsideinstead of the inside.”

“I’ll be all right then,” Rawley muttered thickly.“Don’t mean to be a nuisance. Soon as this grogginesslets up—”

“You’ll be less trouble where you are,” Peter interruptedhim bluntly. “I’ve done all I can for younow, so I’ll go back to my work. The Injun’s makingout all right, too. Head clear as a bell, near as I canjudge. I’ll see you this evening, and if there’s anythingyou want, either of you, just pound that toy drumbeside you. That will bring one of the women.”

Rawley looked up at him, though the movement ofhis eyeballs was excruciatingly painful. Again thatsense of familiarity came to tantalize him. What wasit? Peter’s great, square shoulders, his eyes? Hemade another effort to look more closely and failedaltogether. His vision blurred; things went blackagain. Perhaps he slept, after that. When he openedhis eyes again a cool wind was blowing; the intolerableglare outside the window had softened.

He was conscious of a definite feeling of satisfactionwhen Nevada appeared with a tray of food such asfever patients may have; tea, toast, a bit of fruit—mostlyjuice. Behind her waddled her grandmother;Rawley could not yet believe in the reality of the relationshipbetween this high-bred white girl and theold squaw. In the back of his mind he thought theremust be some joke; or at least, he told himself, lookingat the two closely, Nevada must be one of the tribeby adoption. He had heard of such things.

And there was her Uncle Peter, who was a whiteman in looks, in personality, everything. Yet UnclePeter had flared proudly, “We may be breeds—butwe aren’t brutes.” He could only have meant himselfand Nevada. He looked at her, his eyes going againto the squaw with her gray bangs, the red kerchief, hersquat shapelessness.

Her fear of him seemed to have evaporated uponreflection. Her curiosity concerning him had not,evidently. She set down the tray and stared at himwith a frank fixity that reminded Rawley of the solemnregard of the sloe-eyed baby riding astride AuntGladys’ slatternly hip.

“You feed Johnny Buffalo, Grandmother,” Nevadadirected. “He used to live in this country when hewas a boy. You can’t tell—you might be old acquaintances.”She smiled, patted the old woman on acushiony shoulder and approached Rawley, who wassuddenly resigned to his helplessness.

“Grandmother rather holds herself above full-bloodIndians,” she whispered. “She’s only half Indian, herself.I don’t want her to snub your partner; he looks solonely, somehow. What is it?”

“He’s grieving over my grandfather’s death,” Rawleytold her, his own voice dropped to an undertonethat would not carry. “Until I proposed this trip hedidn’t want to live. He’s better, out here.”

“I do hope—”

A shrill ejacul*tion from the squaw brought Nevada’shead around. “What is it, Grandmother?”

The old woman started a singsong Indian explanation,and Nevada smiled. “She says they do know eachother. She remembers him when he was a boy andwas lost. So that’s fine. He can hear about all his oldplaymates and his family.” She turned her back onthem as if the duties of hostess sat more lightly on hershoulders, since one of the patients could visit withher grandmother.

“I’m wondering what happened, up the trail.”

Nevada thoughtfully cooled the tea with the spoonand looked at him speculatively. “Uncle Peter cantell you better than I can—since I was not permittedto go along. Besides, the less talking you do now, Ibelieve, the less danger there is of complications.Neither wound is so bad of itself, Uncle Peter says.It’s having your head hurt, along with the broken bonein the arm. Unless you are very quiet for a day or two,there may be fever; and fevered blood makes slow healing.That’s Uncle Peter’s theory, and it must be correct.He has books and studies all the time—whenhe isn’t working. Then, of course, there’s the dangerof infection from the outside; but he has been verycareful in the dressings. Johnny Buffalo,” she addedafter a minute, “is worse off than you are. His shoulderblade is badly smashed. And then he’s so mucholder.”

She was talking, he knew, to prevent him fromdoing so. And since his head felt like a nest of crickets,all performing at once, he was content to let her haveher way. Across the room he could hear the intermittentmurmur of the two Indians, the voice of thegrandmother droning musically, with sliding, minorinflections as she recounted, no doubt, the history ofthe old man’s family and friends.

He watched Nevada pour and sweeten a second cupof tea and did a swift mental calculation in genealogy.Jess Cramer, he knew, was a white man. The husbandof Gladys, bearing the name of GrandfatherKing’s enemy, must be a son of the old man and ofthis half-breed squaw. Very well, then, old Jess Cramer’schildren would be one quarter Indian—Peter,Jess and Nevada’s mother (granting that Nevada wasa blood relative). Nevada’s father must have beenwhite,—a Scotchman, by the name, and by Nevada’sclear skin and coppery hair. Well, then, Nevadawas—A knife thrust of pain stabbed through hisbrain, and he could not think. Nevada set down thecup hastily and laid cool fingers on his temple. Helifted his right hand and held her fingers there. Thethrobbing agony lessened, grew fainter and fainter.After all, what did it matter—the blood in thosefingers? They were cool and sweet and soothing—

He thought Nevada had lifted her hand and wasgently removing the bandage from his head. But itwas Uncle Peter, and Nevada was not there, and itwas dark outside. In another room a clock began tostrike the hour. He counted nine. It was strange;he could not remember going to sleep with her fingerspressed against the pulse beat in his temple. Yet hemust have slept for hours. He closed his eyes andthen opened them again, staring up with a child-likecandor into the man’s bent face.

“I know. You look like Grandfather,” he saidthickly. And when Peter’s eyes met his, “It’s youreyes. Grandfather had eyes exactly like yours. Andthere’s something about the mouth—a bitterness.Gameness, too. Grandfather had his legs off at theknees, for fifty years. Called himself a hunk of meatin a wheel chair. God, it must be awful—a thing likethat, when the rest of you is big and strong—butyou’re not crippled that way. Oh, Johnny! Are youawake?” He heard a grunt. “I’ve got it—whatyou meant at first, about seeing your sergeant. UnclePeter looks like—”

A hand went over his mouth quite unexpectedly andeffectually. He looked up into the eyes like GrandfatherKing’s and found them very terrible.

“Fool! Never whisper it. Am I not the son ofJess Cramer? It had better be so! Better not seethat I am like his enemy—and rival.” He leanedclose, his eyes boring into the eyes so like his own.“One word to any one that would slur my mother,and—” he pressed his lips together, his meaning toldby his eyes. “She came to me to-day, chattering herfear. Old Jess Cramer lives with other thoughts, andhis eyes are dim at close range. Never come close tohim, boy. Never recall the past to him. It wouldmean—God knows what it would mean. My mother’slife, maybe. And then his own, for I’d kill him, ofcourse, if he touched her.”

Rawley blinked, trying to make sense of the riddle.Then his good hand went out and rested onPeter’s arm, that was trembling under the thin shirtsleeve.

“Uncle Peter!” His lips barely moved to form thewords, and afterward they smiled. “The blood ofthe Kings! I’m glad—”

“Are you?” Peter bent over him fiercely. “Proudof a man who went away and left my mother—”

“He had to go,” Rawley defended hastily. “Hemeant to come back in a month’s time. But he wasshot through the legs, and in hospital for months, andthen sent home a cripple. After that he lost his legsaltogether. How could he come back? Johnny cantell you.”

Peter pulled himself together and redressed thelong, angry gash on Rawley’s head. Johnny Buffalo,having slowly squirmed his body to a position thatgave him a view of Rawley’s cot, watched them unblinkingly,his wise old eyes gravely inscrutable. Whenhe had finished, Peter strode to the door and stoodthere looking out. Rawley had a queer feeling that hewas looking for eavesdroppers.

“What you say will make my mother happier,” hetold Rawley, coming back and speaking in his usualcalm tone of immutable reserve. “She seemed verybitter to-day when she talked with me. She has alwaysthought your grandfather went away knowinghe would never come back. And she has proud, Spanishblood in her veins—”

“Anita, by ——!” Rawley’s jaw dropped in sheer,crestfallen amazement.

“Did he tell you?” Peter eyed him queerly.

“It’s the diary. The beautiful, half-Spanish girl, allfire and life—he described her like that. And—”

“Well, they change as they grow old.” Peter’s lipstwitched in a grin. “The beautiful Spanish señoritasget fat and ugly, and the Indian women are more so.Your grandfather’s fiery Spanish girl had nothing topull her up the hill. Monotony, hardships—one can’twonder if the recidivous influences surrounding her allthese years pulled her down to the dead level of hermother’s people. Take this Indian here—” he tiltedhis head toward Johnny Buffalo—“he was taken outof it when he was a kid. Now, aside from certaintraits of dignity and repression, I imagine he’s morewhite than Indian.”

Rawley nodded. “Lived right with Grandfather allhis life and has studied and read everything he couldget his hands on. He’s better educated than lots ofcollege men; aren’t you, Johnny?”

“Yes. I think very much, of many things whichIndians do not know. I do not talk very much. Andthat is wisdom also.”

“Mother had nothing from books. When heryouth went and she began to take on weight, shedropped her pretty ways and became like the squaws.I remember, and it used to hurt my pride to see herslip into their ways. I was—white.” His mouthshut grimly.

Rawley lay looking into his face, trying to realizethe full significance of this amazing truth. His grandfather’sson, and Anita’s. His own uncle. With Indianblood, but his uncle nevertheless. If GrandfatherKing had known—

“He’d have been proud,” he said aloud, “to have ason like you. He always wanted—and my father wasa weakling, physically, I mean. He died when I wasjust a kid. Grandfather called him a damned milksop,because he wanted to work in a bank. Johnny cantell you a lot about Grandfather—your—father.”He lowered his voice, mindful of Peter’s warning.And then, “Does Nev—does your niece know aboutit?”

“She does not. The fewer who know it, the betterfor all concerned. There will be four of us, as it is.There mustn’t be five. Why make the lives of two oldpeople bitter? Old Jess—I’ve a brother, Young Jess—thinksI am his son. He needs me, and Nevadaneeds me. We’ve hung together, in spite of the mixedbreed you see us. Jess is Injun in looks and ways.Nevada’s mother was all white. Jess married a missionhalf-breed girl, and their kids are Injun to the bone.Belle, Nevada’s mother, married a Scotchman—goodblood, I always thought, from his looks and actions.Nevada’s—Nevada.”

He said it proudly, and Rawley felt his blood tinglewith something of the same pride.

From the other bed Johnny Buffalo spoke suddenly.“Anita, your mother, is my cousin. The daughter ofmy aunt. My blood is mingled with the blood of mysergeant’s son. My heart is now alive again and lifeis good. My sergeant has gone where he can walk ontwo feet, and I am left to care for his son and hisgrandson. I now see that God is very wise.”

“He is?” Peter pulled down his heavy, blackbrows and the corners of his lips. “I’ve spent a gooddeal of time wondering about that. There’s Nevada—andone-eighth Indian. Is that—”

“Oh, what the devil difference does that make?”Rawley gave a flounce that made him groan. But inthe midst of it he managed to growl, “You said ityourself; Nevada’s—Nevada.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
RAWLEY THINKS THINGS OUT

At intervals of fevered wakefulness during thatnight, Rawley went over and over the astonishing stateof affairs. The hour and the temperature that wasalmost inevitable conspired to twist and exaggerate thetruth, to give him an intolerable sense of kinship withthe slovenly, platter-faced Gladys, the stolid obesityof the old squaw, and of a hopeless abyss betweenhimself and Nevada. They were related, somehow.They must be, since her Uncle Peter was also his uncle.Uncle Peter, he thought, had been terribly wronged,and he must somehow make amends, must remove thehandicap of that savage blood. In the morning he musttell Gladys that he was her cousin; why, that madehim Indian, too! No wonder his hair was so black,and he loved the wilderness with such a passion. Hewas part Indian, that was why. Johnny Buffalo wassome relation; how Rawley’s mother would hate that!

What he did not know was that he talked about it,with Johnny Buffalo awake and listening in the bedagainst the farther wall, and with Peter awake, too, ina bed he had made for himself on the porch. He remembered that Peter came and gave him a drink,and that it did not seem to matter so much, after that.He slept late into the morning, after the opiate, andawoke to a saner point of view.

As before, Nevada and her grandmother broughttrays of food and helped the two helpless ones to eat.With the knowledge Peter had given him, Rawleylooked with more interest at the old lady, covertly tryingto see the slim little half-caste Spanish girl whomGrandfather King had found “the joy of his heart.”On the whole, Rawley could not feel that his grandfatherwould have gone on loving, in any case. And hecould not get away from the fact that Anita had consoledherself with considerable expedition.

“You aren’t such a hero, after all,” Nevada banteredhim, bringing him out of his revery with a laugh.“You’re looking abominably well, this morning, fora young man who was brought in dead only yesterday.And after all, you did not kill Queo. Uncle Jess andUncle Peter went up to the spot last evening, just beforedark, to identify him beyond all doubt, and—he’ddisappeared. They found where he had lain behindthe rock, and they knew he was wounded, by theblood.” She shivered involuntarily. “But he wasn’tanywhere to be found. Uncle Peter feels quite put out.He looked at Queo when he went up after you, and hefelt sure the man was dead. So now, if he lives, he’llbe more venomous than ever.”

“Then I’m sorry I hit him at all,” Rawley declared.“But I had to. He was after the grub, all right. Hethanked me for carrying it up to the trail for him.Then he plugged me—I didn’t duck quite soon enough.So—I always hate to be killed, like that,” he finishedwhimsically.

“That sounds like Uncle Peter,” Nevada observed.“Your voice, I mean. Grandmother, don’t you thinkMr. King looks and talks like Uncle Peter?”

Rawley tried not to look as startled as he felt. Thepillowy (after all, one letter would have called herwillowy in the old days, so that not so much had beenchanged) Anita walked deliberately over to them, advancingone side at a time, like a duck that travels in aleisurely mood. She laid her cushioned knuckles on herbulging hips and regarded Rawley steadfastly.

“Mebby he look—a lil bit,” she conceded with asuperb indifference. “Peter, he t’inner—a lil bit.More darker. More—like his fadder, Jesse.”

“Yes-s—he does look more like Grandfather, ofcourse. But I do think Mr. King looks like them both.”Nevada spoke with a perfect sincerity which sent thespirits of three persons up a notch or two.

Rawley laughed. “Well, maybe we’re some relation—awayback,” he said recklessly. “A Cramer,connected with my family, was known to have comeWest, years ago. I remember reading it in some oldrecord. But I’m afraid I can’t claim he was veryclosely related. In fact, I rather think he wasn’t.”His eyes met the eyes of old Anita, and he almostthought he saw a gleam of approval in them. Hecould not be sure.

Of the look in the eyes of Peter, who was standingin the doorway, he was much more positive. The colorcame into his face as their eyes met. After all, otherswere sure to notice the resemblance, and there must besome explanation ready.

“I’m sure that’s it.” Nevada laughed softly.“You’re a fourth or fifth cousin, perhaps. Likenessesdo travel that way. I wonder if Grandfather wouldknow.”

“I wouldn’t want to ask him,” her Uncle Peterobserved in his grim way. “Why stir the old man upfor days, just to satisfy idle curiosity?” He laid hishand on Nevada’s head, smoothing back a lock of herhair with a gesture inexpressibly tender. “On thestrength of the fifth-cousin relationship, seems like wemight drop the Mr. King. Father hates to think ofhis past,—a quarrel with his family brought himWest, as nearly as I can make out. What do folks callyou, young man, when they know you well?”

“Oh, Rawley is what I grew up under. GeorgeRawlins King is my name. I wish you would call meRawley. Then I could say Uncle Peter, and Nevada,and—Grandmother, maybe, if Mrs. Cramer will letme.”

“Uncle me all you please,” grinned Peter. “AndNevada is down on all the school maps. If you don’tmind, when you do meet father, let it be as GeorgeRawlins. Your last name might or might not recall afamily quarrel. But—we spare him excitement asmuch as possible. And while you’re here, the outfitwill call you—Rawlins.”

“Well, then I’ll explain to Aunt Gladys,” said Nevada,as if they were planning a secret for fun; andyet there was a certain look of anxiety, too, in her face.“I think I can manage her—but then she never saysmuch to Grandfather, anyway. They don’t like eachother very well,” she explained to Rawley. “Grandfatherwas angry when Uncle Jess married her, andwhile they never quarrel, it is merely toleration. AuntGladys won’t tell.”

Rawlins then lay for a long time thinking howstrangely the pattern is woven into the woof of Life.With the sun shining and the noise of playing childrenoutside, the unexpected turn of events seemed morenatural. So much had happened in the past twenty-fourhours that Rawley found himself checking up,as he called it, on events and emotions engendered bythe sudden crises. He glanced across at the other bedand found Johnny Buffalo awake and seemingly comfortable;wherefore he made bold to ask a few questions.

“Johnny, I thought I had those women hiddenaround a bend in the trail. How did Queo manage tospot them so as to try a shot? I’ve been wonderingabout that first rifle shot. Are you sure it was firedat us?”

“I am sure. You were not hidden altogether. I,myself, could see heads, though I could not see the trail.Queo was higher. I think that little point was too low.”

“Well, that accounts for it. I lost my bearings downthere, then. Part of the ridge was hidden, I know. Ithought it was the place where he was located. Heshot wide, anyway.” He lay looking at a Las Vegasmerchant’s calendar, reviewing still the immediatepast.

“There’s another thing that just struck me thismorning. How did Grandfather know that JessCramer was located here on the river? Jess was asoldier at the fort, I thought, when Grandfather sawhim last. It’s in the diary.”

“I think you should read again more carefully, myson. My sergeant spoke to me often of Jess Cramer.He had found gold here at this canyon. He was oftenat the fort, spending his gold in the games of chance.Jess Cramer played not for sport, but to win. Asergeant’s pay was not large, and my sergeant spentmany hours in searching for such gold as Jess Cramerbrought with him to the fort. My sergeant had wona little. He kept it and searched for more of the same.It was not only for Anita that the two quarreled. Awoman and gold make hatreds that do not die. He didnot tell me all. He longed for a son who would takeup the search. Or so I believed. I did not know thathe had found his gold. I thought that the nuggets hegave to you he had won at cards from Jess Cramer.He told you that he picked them up. My sergeant doesnot lie. So I know that he had found the gold he hadsought, and that if you obeyed him you would learnthe secret he had kept from me.”

“He had a son,” Rawley muttered, “and he’d havebeen proud of him if he had known about him.Johnny, I can’t help thinking that Peter is moreGrandfather’s son than my father was.”

Johnny Buffalo meditated, staring at the ceiling.

“There was love,” he said softly at last. “My sergeantdid not love the mother of your father. I couldsee in his eyes when he looked upon her that histhoughts were not with her, and that his heart was faraway.”

They lay for a long time silent. Each thought thatthe other slept, he lay so still. But of a sudden Rawleyreached up his uninjured hand and pushed back thebandage that was slipping over his eye. The movementbetrayed not so much protest against a physical discomfortas the impatient mind that seeks in vain forthe correct answer to a puzzle.

But Johnny Buffalo did not sleep. He lay staringat the ceiling, his mouth closed firmly with lines besideit which nature draws to show when the soul isweary. But there was no longer any bitterness there,though there was pain. The hollow eyes glowed steadily,as if the old man had found a light ahead somewherein the blackness of his grief. Once, a gentlesnore drew his attention, and he turned his head andstared for a long while at the young, unlined facewith the bandage drawn diagonally above it. ForRawley the Great Game had only begun; his stakeswere piled before him, to win or to lose. The oldIndian wondered gravely how that Game would beplayed. Wisely? Bravely,—he was sure. Honestly,—hehoped.

CHAPTER TWELVE
RAWLEY PLAYS THE GAME

How wisely, how honestly, how bravely he wouldplay the Great Game, Rawley unconsciously indicatedthat evening, when Peter sat alone with the two, afterNevada and her grandmother had given them their supperand gone away. Peter had declared himself ratherproud of his surgical skill, and had almost yielded toRawley’s importunities that he might get up and dressin the morning and help take care of Johnny Buffalo.But Peter had his father’s firmness, after all.

“I took five stitches in that gash on your head,” heexplained. “Queo uses slugs to knock over an elephant.I’m not so sure your skull isn’t cracked. Youtalk rather crack-brained, sometimes.” (That wasPeter’s first joke with them.) “Best wait until we’resure, anyway.”

Rawley gave an embarrassed kind of laugh and sentan involuntary, inquiring glance at Johnny Buffalo.

“I wish you’d lock the door, Uncle Peter, and thenbring me my coat. I’ve got something on my mindother than a cracked skull and embroidered hide.

“Now, to make the thing clear to you, Uncle Peter,I’ll have to say that Grandfather left here expecting tocome back—and I hope you told your mother whathappened.”

Peter nodded.

“Well, there Grandfather was, helpless. It made himkind of proud and bitter, and he sort of held himselfaway from folks. But he was disappointed because myfather was sickly and didn’t take to anything outdoors,and I never met him face to face, or spoke a word tohim, until the night before he died. Of course nobodydreamed he was going—I don’t think he did, orJohnny, even.

“At any rate, he sent for me. And he said I wasall King, and he had waited to make sure. He talkeda little and gave me his old diary and an old Biblehis mother had given him. He told me to read theBible—that there was a lot in it, if I read it carefully.It was the last talk I had with him. He died in thenight.

“Well, the point I’m getting at is this: Grandfatherhad a secret—about a mine out here. He hadit all described, in a kind of code that sure had meguessing blind for awhile. I found a long list of Biblereferences, you see—no one would ever think of wadingthrough the bunch, unless it was a preacher, maybe;and he wouldn’t need to. It took me a while to catchon to the fact that they meant something. Grandfather,you must know, wasn’t religious. Anything but. Sothe crux of the matter was those references looked sodarned dry and innocent, and they were the only thingI could find to work on. Johnny, there, made it mightyplain to me that I’d better work on something. I triedPoe’s cipher, and I looked up all the references. I willsay that just reading verse after verse, according tothe references, they make snappy reading; murder andbloodshed and bigamy and the wrath of God. Andnames I couldn’t pronounce, of tribes headed out on thewarpath. It was great stuff—not.

“But finally I dug into the little old Bible Grandfatherhad carried around with him—and hadn’t read,or the book’s a liar—and I got this. I want to readit to you: I dug it out by writing down words andphrases in all the verses, that Grandfather had marked.I’ll read it as if it were altogether—which it wasn’t,by a long shot:

“Gold is mine, more than heart could wish. Myson, if thou wilt receive my words and hide my commandmentswith thee, I will give thee riches, andwealth, such as none of the Kings have had that havebeen before thee. Be wise, now, therefore, be instructed.Of the gold, there is no number. The landwhither ye go to possess it is a land of hills and valleys.

“Do this, now, my son. Go through a city which isby the river in the wilderness, yet making many rich.In the midst thereof a ferry-boat which is by the brinkof the river. Take victuals with you for the journey.Turn you northward into the wilderness, to a great andhigh mountain; cedar trees in abundance scattered overthe face of the high mountain. In the cliffs there is apath which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture’seye hath not seen. Come to the top of the mount. Passover unto the other side, westward. On the hillside, avery great heap of stones joined to a dry tree. Gointo the clefts of the rocks, into the tops of the jaggedrocks, to the sides of the pit. Take heed, now—thatis exceeding deep. It is hid from the eyes of all living.Creep into the midst thereof, eastward, two hundredand fourscore feet. Ye shall find a pure river ofwater. Proceed no further. There is gold heavierthan the sand; pure gold upon the sand. And all thegold thou shalt take up. Then shalt thou prosper ifthou takest heed. I know thy poverty, but thou artrich.

“Take heed, now. On the hillside which is uponthe bank of the river in the wilderness, there shall thevultures also be gathered. Ye shall find him that ismine enemy. His mouth is full of cursing, under histongue is mischief and vanity. Be watchful—theheart is desperately wicked.

“He that keepeth his mouth, keepeth his life. I putmy trust in thee. Now, my son, the Lord be withthee and prosper thou.”

Rawley folded the paper, looking up under his bandagedbrows at Uncle Peter, and sending a glance pasthim to the unreadable face of Johnny Buffalo.

“So that’s what I dug out of his Bible. He meantit for his son. He told me so himself. But he saidmy dad wasn’t the man to get anything out of it—whichwas true. When he passed it on to me, he—hedidn’t know he had another son who could make goodon the proposition. It’s yours, by rights. He just gaveit to me because he didn’t know of any one else. And—all I ask, Uncle Peter, is that you make some kindof provision for Johnny, over there. I told him we’dgo fifty-fifty, and—” he held out the folded paperto Peter—“Johnny’s been hands and feet and a loyalfriend to Grandfather, all these years. Fifty. Justthink of that, Uncle Peter. Grandfather didn’t haveanything but his pension—and this. He didn’t sayso, but I know he expected me to look after Johnny.I will, of course. I can make good money at my profession.And I want to say, Uncle Peter,” he addedboyishly, “that I’m mighty glad Grandfather leftsomething—for his son.”

Rawley lay back with a relieved sigh and watchedPeter, his eyes smiling a little. He did not think thathe had done any unusual thing. Peter was exactly thekind of son whom Grandfather King had longed for,all these years. Rawley guessed that Peter, too, hadbeen defrauded of the father he would have worshiped.It was a foregone conclusion that, had GrandfatherKing known Peter, he would have sent him, long ago,hunting for the mine. And while Peter had not saidso, Rawley guessed shrewdly that Peter did not greatlyadmire Jess Cramer, in spite of the fact that he hadbelieved the man his father. His nightmare thoughts,that he had somehow defrauded Peter, were wiped outonce for all. The code had been written for the sonof King, of the Mounted. The son had it. No morewas to be said.

Peter opened the paper and read it through slowly,a corner of his lip drawn between his teeth. What hethought, no man could say. He finished the readingand folded the paper slowly, looking at Rawley afterwardfrom under his heavy brows.

“Have you still got the Bible and the references?”he asked.

“Yes. In my safe deposit box, in St. Louis.”

“Humph.” Peter deliberately twisted the paperinto a spill, felt in his pocket for a match, and as deliberatelyset fire to the paper, turning and tilting ituntil the creeping flame was about to scorch his fingers.He laid the stub on the floor, bent and watched it goblack, then set his foot upon the charred fragments.

“Boy, you keep what was given you. If I’ve anyright in it, I’ll sign that right over to you. But nevermention that—” he motioned toward the ashes onthe floor—“above your breath. Your grand—myfather was right. The vultures are perched here bythe river, and the old vulture’s eye is never shut.While you’re here, forget it. Both of you.”

“But it isn’t mine. It’s yours, Uncle Peter. Idon’t want it—now.”

“If it’s mine, then it will never be found. I don’tneed it. When the vultures swoop down and light—thefeast will be big enough even for them. But Iwarn you, remember. Never speak of that again, inthis camp.” He stood up, gazing down at Rawleymuch as Grandfather King had looked at him thatnight. With a quick, impulsive movement he stoopedand laid his hand over Rawley’s, pressing it warmly.He smiled; and there was that in the smile which madeRawley draw in his breath sharply.

“If Fate had dealt the cards straight to me—Imight have had you for my son!”

He drew his hand away, turned and walked out.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE COLORADO

The tribe of Cramer dined. In the shack besidethe big mesquite tree was heard the clatter of knivesand forks—more knives than forks, one might guess—thedull clink of enameled ware, the high, demandingvoices of hungry children more Indian than white.Above all the clamor of feeding, the shrill petulanceof Aunt Gladys could be heard rising above all othersounds as she expostulated incessantly with her young.The baby was crying monotonously. Some one kickeda dog, which shot out of the open door ki-yi-ing hysterically.

In the smaller rock dugout, tinkle of glass and silverplate and china betrayed the fact that the white bloodheld itself aloof from the red at mealtime. In thelarger cabin built for Nevada, Rawley had just finishedhis supper, eaten with Johnny Buffalo in a punctiliousregard for the old man’s feelings, though he had beeninvited to join Peter and Nevada at table.

In the matter of recovery, young bones were healingmuch faster than the old. Rawley had been promotedto a gauze pad held in place by strips of adhesiveover the long gash on his head. His arm had settleddown to the dull, grinding ache and intolerable deepitching of knitting bone and healing flesh. JohnnyBuffalo, splinted and bandaged, was able to sit proppedin cushions in a big chair on the porch.

Rawley left him reading deliberately the matchless“Apology” of Socrates, which Peter had lent him thatday, and started out for a walk, choosing between hisown company and the companionship of Nevada, whichseemed always to bring at least half the tribe of Cramerat their heels like the dragging tail of a kite. Rawleyreflected disgustedly that as yet he had never had fiveconsecutive minutes alone with Nevada. When hergrandmother was not filling the foreground, the offspringof Aunt Gladys formed a snuffling, big-earedbackground which Nevada sweepingly termed the LittlePitchers. Whether Nevada enjoyed the companyof the Little Pitchers on their infrequent strolls to theriver bank, or approved the solid chaperonage of thejuglike Anita, Rawley had never been able to decide.Nevada’s manner toward her dark-skinned kinsfolkwas impartially and imperturbably gracious. Indeed,Rawley sometimes suspected that she deliberately encouragedtheir tagging along. Four goggling kidsand three dogs, he considered, might be recommendedas a romance-proof chaperonage.

Mechanically he walked straight down to the river,to the spot which Nevada always chose as their destination.A flat rock there formed a convenient placeto sit and enjoy the view of the river and the hillsbeyond. Across the swift-moving, muddy stream,bottom lands covered with cottonwoods gave a refreshingtouch of green to the picture. Arizona cottonwoodsthey were, since the Colorado formed the dividingline. Away to the southwest, he could see thehills made familiar at Kingman. Rough, rather forbiddingmountains they had been at close range, butnow they were made soft and alluring by the bluehaze of distance. Straight down the river he couldsee the hill that looked down on El Dorado, that“city forsaken.” Up the river he could not see, becauseof the high, granite cliffs that blocked theview.

Because nature had seemed to bar the way, Rawleyturned and made his way aimlessly toward the barrier.With his left arm in splints and carried in a sling, hecould not do much in the way of climbing; but presentlyhe stumbled upon a well-defined path leadingamongst bowlders just under the rim of the basin. Thepath led up the canyon, and Rawley followed it witha desultory interest in seeing where it led,—and forthe exercise it promised. Perhaps, had he given thematter thought, he would have owned that a strangetrail never failed to tempt his feet to follow. At anyrate, he held to the pathway.

Now the river was hidden completely from him,though he could hear it complaining over the bowldersin the canyon and hurrying through as fast as if indignation lent it speed. The path went on, finding theeasiest places to worm through the jagged rocks andclimbing closer and closer to the river, whose roarbecame more distinct as he neared it.

Through a split in the huge wall so narrow as to bealmost a crevice, the trail led him quite suddenly to anarrow shelf set sheer above the river. Crude stepscut in the rock went down the cliff at a slant. Heheard the water worrying over something unseen at thebottom, and began to descend, his right hand steadyinghimself against the granite wall. He was curious,somewhat mystified. Neither Peter nor Nevada hadmentioned any possibility of reaching the water’s edgein the canyon.

He found himself in a tiny cove which had beenformed when some primal upheaval had split thegranite wall at the base, throwing the outside into theriver. No more than a wide crack, it was, but it wasserving well a purpose. A small, rock landing filledthe shore end of the slit completely. Riding quietly inthe slack water of the small anchorage, a squat, powerfullooking launch sat bow to the landing, secured thereby a heavy chain.

A great deal of labor had gone into the making ofthat landing and the steps leading down to it. Histrained eyes could see where an inner portion of thejagged point had been cleverly blown off in such mannerthat the huge fragments formed a most naturalappearing breakwater, making quiet water within instead of a moiling swirl. If the Cramers wanted asecret landing on the river, here was one ideally suitedto their needs.

But the Cramers had another landing, in plain sightof the flat rock at the rim of the basin. At that landingalso a launch was tied; a very ordinary launch ofa type sufficiently sturdy to combat easily enough thestrong river current. It was that other launch thatwas out of repair so that a trip to Needles had been declaredimpossible. True enough, this launch mightalso be out of commission, but Rawley did not thinkso. Stopping and looking in at the engine, he judgedthat it was in very good working order indeed, andfrom certain little, indefinable signs, he believed thatit had been lately used. By whom he did not know,although he remembered now that Young Jess—whowas not so young as he sounded, since he was well pastforty—had not been in evidence lately among hisfamily.

He saw all that was to be seen and retraced his stepsup the rock stairway. It could not matter, one wayor the other, if the Cramers kept a dozen secret landingson the river. Nevertheless, Rawley was franklypuzzled. He thought he could guess why his UnclePeter had not wanted to take them to Needles in thislarge boat. If he really meant to keep this boat asecret, it would scarcely do to run it down to the houselanding, alongside the smaller, crippled launch. Rawleyand Johnny might come back, some time, and theymight ask about the second launch, seeing only onedown there at the other landing.

Some one must want absolute freedom to comeand go by the river without observation, he decided.With the smaller launch innocently swinging in theeddy at the lower landing, the Cramers would naturallyappear to be at home, or ranging in the hills; whereasone or two of them might be absent in this boat here.It was very simple,—and very mystifying as well.The rock landing stage was built to make safe anchoragein high water as in low; which proved conclusivelythat this was an all-year landing.

At the top he hesitated, in some doubt as to whetherhe should return to the house or follow the path on upthe canyon. He yielded to the unknown trail, whichwas singularly well-traveled for a trail that apparentlyled directly away from any logical destination. Hehad not gone far when he came upon the flat, levelspace of a dump. Close beside him the black mouth ofa tunnel opened into the cliff rising a sheer hundredfeet above his head. He stopped, astonished at thisunexpected ending of the trail. The solid face of granitegave no indication whatever of carrying mineralof any kind. There was no logical reason, therefore,for all this evidence of development work.

The ethics of his profession forbade his prowlingunderground without being invited. He would assoon open an unlocked door and go spying througha man’s house and personal belongings. From the sizeof the dump he judged that the workings extended forsome distance underground, and from the look of therock that had come from the tunnel he knew that anyhope of reaching mineral was likely to remain longunfulfilled. Instinctively he picked up a piece of rockhere and there, looked at it and threw it aside. Ifthey were driving in to a contact, he thought, theCramers must have sharp eyes indeed for surface indications.Knowing mineral formations at a glance wasa part of his trade, and he had seen absolutely nothingthat would lead him to the point of advising any manto lift a shovelful of muck.

He turned back. The afterglow was purplingacross the river, and he did not want to be too longaway from Johnny Buffalo. He reached a turn in thetrail where a jutting crag thrust out and overhung theriver,—and there he stopped short.

Perched on the point of the crag like the vulture hisgrandfather had named him, Old Jess Cramer leanedand looked down upon the hurrying waters, a full sixhundred feet below him. The distance between themwas mostly a matter of altitude, for Old Jess hadclimbed considerably to reach that particular point.Staring up at him, Rawley was struck with a certainweird resemblance to that predatory bird. There wassomething sinister about him as he sat there; somethingrapacious and purposeful. It was as if he meant toseize the river and wrest from it something which hisgreed desired. While he looked, Old Jess stretchedout his arm and shook his fist at the roaring stream.

Rawley turned away. Something within him revoltedat the sight, though even to himself he couldnot have explained why. As his gaze dropped from OldJess to the trail, there was Peter standing looking fromone to the other. Peter’s face was stern, his eyes coldwith disapproval. It seemed to Rawley that he waspurposely blocking the trail.

“I see you’ve done quite a lot of development workback there,” Rawley remarked to cover a vague embarrassment.

“Yes. Quite a lot. Did you go in?”

Rawley smiled at what seemed to him a needlessquestion. “Certainly not. I never go undergroundunless I’m hired to do so.”

He thought he saw relief in his Uncle Peter’s eyes.

“Well, I never saw any particular fun in it, myself.It’s all work, to me.” He turned and seemed to beawaiting Rawley’s pleasure. “If you want a view,”Peter hazarded drily, “you ought to go down to wherethe river swings east, below the basin where we live.You can look straight up the canyon here for a longway. Cliffs are too jagged here to get much of aview; there’s a bulge in the canyon that interferes.”

“It’s better down at the landing in front of thehouse than it is here,” Rawley agreed carelessly. “Isee now why Nevada always heads straight for that big,flat rock.”

He caught a swift, questioning side glance fromUncle Peter and knew beyond all doubt that the biglaunch, the hewn-rock stairway and the tunnel in thecliff were things which he was not supposed to knowabout. But the reason for the secrecy he could notguess.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE VULTURE SCREAMS

A high-keyed snarl brought the two sharply facingthe crag. Bearing down upon them with his fistsflailing the air in a kind of impotent fury came oldJess Cramer, like a vulture fighting for his feast.Rawley had seen the old man at a short distance, buthe had never before stood face to face with him. Hewould cheerfully have missed the meeting now. OldJess craned his long neck toward him, his bleak, blue-grayeyes venomous. But it was Peter to whom hespoke—screamed, rather.

“Told ye it’d come to this, didn’t I? You wouldtake ’em in and pet ’em up, and treat ’em better’n youdo your own kin! Think so much of ’em you had togo and show ’em what we’re doing and why! Reckonwhen we touch ’er off and git the damned river pennedback, you’ll beg ’em on your knees to go down andclaw out gold till they wear their fingers to the bone!

“What have I slaved for and worked for andhoarded for, all these years? To let you give away thegold when we git it? Is this the kind uh thing Iraised ye for? Take in the first stranger that comessnoopin’ around the place, and bring him sight-seein’up here to our dam! You—!”

Rawley had thought the miners he sometimes workedamong could curse, but he stood agape before theblistering vituperations of this gray-bearded old man.He looked at Peter, wondering how any man with theKing blood could have endured his fancied father’s viletongue all these years. Peter stood with a face ofiron, his eyes terribly blue and hard, and listened impersonallyto the frenzied outburst.

“That’s enough, now. Shut up and listen to me!”

It was like snapping a whip in the face of a roaringlion. Old Jess had stopped merely to gasp fresh airinto his lungs so that he could go on. He glared atPeter, weakened and cringed. The fire that had flaredin his eyes died as suddenly. He looked toward theriver, looked at Rawley and his glance slid away fromthe two of them.

“What’d yuh want to go and let it all out to himfor?” he half whimpered. “Now he’ll want a share—andthere might not be more ’n five or six millions inthe hull damned river bed! And you know ’s well as Ido, Peter, that our dam is liable as not to go out, nexthigh water. We won’t have many months to workin, mebby. I—I want a word with yuh, Peter. I—Iwant a word with yuh, that’s all. I guess mebby youknow what you’re up to, but—”

“Shut up!” Peter snapped the verbal whip again.His eyes turned briefly toward Rawley. “What’s beenlet out, you did yourself, dad.” (Rawley thought thatPeter hesitated over the last word.) “I have neverbreathed one word of our plan. Slave? What have Ibeen slaving for, all these years? Do you think I havenot endured everything but dishonor, for the sake ofthe millions we plan to get? And Nevada—whatabout her? Hasn’t she done the work of a man andslaved over her studies, so that she could help, too? It’syou, letting go your tongue and raving like a fool, thathas betrayed the secret. You’ve done it. This mandidn’t know or suspect a thing, till you let it out,accusing me of telling!”

The old man looked uneasily from one to the other.Peter stared unrelentingly at him. Rawley, stealing aglance at his face, thought that he knew now the kindof man his Grandfather King had been in his old,fighting days.

“Now, he’ll have to know.” Peter’s voice relaxedthe tension. It was as if he had suddenly determinedto accept the situation and make the best of it,—andthe most. “He can be trusted, I think. He’ll haveto be trusted, after your blathering.”

Old Jess turned his predatory eyes on Rawley, andhis beard moved to a sinister smile beneath.

“You’re a big man, Peter—and it ain’t but a fewsteps to the edge!” He tilted his head backwardstoward the river. There was no possibility of mistakinghis meaning. But he added a sentence to clinchit: “She never gives up a body—the Coloradodon’t!”

Peter’s grin was a withering thing to face. Againthe old man cringed, and his eyes shifted like a corneredrat.

“I’ll remember that, if you open your mouth again.I’m strong—and the river never gives up a dead man.You keep that in mind, will you?” Peter insistedominously.

“He shan’t have none of my share,” Old Jessshrilled, his voice cracking with anger and fear. “Itwas my idee, before you was born, Peter. You shan’trob me in my old age—you shan’t, now! I’ll be thefirst one to pick up the gold—that’s been understood,since you was big enough to talk. An’ he better notlet it out to anybody! I’ll kill him if he does—youmark me, Peter! I’ll kill any man that stands in myroad to them millions I been watching over all theselong years—scrabbling the gold together, ounce byounce, till I’ve got enough to do it! A million dollars—butI’ll reap a thousand dollars for one. You markwhat I say; I’ll kill anybody that tries to horn in—It’smine, every bit of it!”

“In that case,” said Peter contemptuously, “youcan go ahead and get it.”

“All but your share’s mine, Peter. Yours andYoung Jess’ and Nevada’s. This feller better notthink—”

“He only thinks you’re a fool,” Peter told himharshly. “Stay and watch your gold, then. It mightfloat off!” He motioned with his head toward home,and Rawley obeyed the signal and started ahead of himdown the trail, wondering a good deal over the encounter.

“Looks like I’m driving you off,” Peter remarkedafter a bit. “But I’m merely bringing up the rear.Old Jess is not all there. I’ll tell you all about it, nowhe’s told so much. I had half a mind to, anyway, ifI could get him and Young Jess to agree. You’re amining engineer. I kind of wanted your opinion andadvice. It is out of your line, probably; but technicaltraining helps. I never had any, myself. Old Jess isa slave driver, all right. And now he’s half crazy, andI wouldn’t want to go off and leave him with thewomen. If a stranger happened along and rousedhis suspicion, there’s no prophesying what might happen.”

“It sounds pretty wild, to me, all his talk,” Rawleyreturned after a minute. “I can easily believe the oldman’s crazy. I can’t seem to get any sense out of it;millions of gold—and all that. Uncle Peter, wereyou just stringing him along—because he’s crazy?”

Peter laughed queerly. “I can’t wonder at yourthinking so,” he said. “Sit down here, and I’ll tellyou the straight of it.”

It was the flat rock which they had reached. Theshouts of the children, the barking of the dogs and thecrying of the baby came to them in one indistinguishable chorus from across the small flat. In the deepeningdusk they would not be noticed and interrupted.

“Away back, before I was born,” Peter began,“Jess had mining claims here. Placer, and he wasdoing pretty well at it, I imagine. He bached herebeside the river, and an idea came to him one day thathas stuck to him like a burr ever since. That idea, boy,has ruled this bunch, has driven us like dogs. It’s abig one—the only big idea he ever had, so far as Iknow.

“Old Jess got to thinking how much gold mustlie at the bottom of the river, washed down throughall the centuries of time, through Colorado, eventhrough Wyoming, where its main tributaries rise.When you think of it, the thing gets hold of you. Andthe more you think, the stronger it holds. He thoughthow tremendously rich and powerful he’d be if hecould just get at that gold out there. But you see theold river; she holds what she’s got. And in floodtime—

“Well, it wasn’t long before he began to figure outhow he could get at that gold. And he got the idea ofthrowing a dam across the canyon here, and backingup the water. I don’t think he ever told any one, buthe kind of quizzed around and decided finally that itwould cost a lot of money. A million dollars, we madeit at a rough guess. So he began to save his gold, insteadof gambling and carousing with it down in ElDorado and at the fort. For that matter, I believe theold man always was a grasping, avaricious individual.It’s his nature—I’ve seen it demonstrated all my life.

“We’re all living fairly decently now, son. Butuntil I was old enough to assert myself a bit, he almoststarved us, he was so keen on saving that million.Even now I have to have a run-in with him, every sooften, about the money that goes for living expenses.But he can afford it. He’s got his million, and thensome.”

“What?”

“He’s been saving every grain he could scrape together,for fifty years, Rawley. And it’s a good claim—groupof claims, rather. No one in the countryhas ever dreamed that we’ve done more than scratch aliving here. Some day, when your arm is well, I’llshow you. Yes, he has his million.

“For a long time, now—several years—we’vebeen getting ready for the dam. That tunnel you sawis part of the work. When you’re better, I’d like totake you through our workings and see what we’vedone and what we expect to do. Maybe you can giveus some advice. We’ve had to use our own wits, becausewe can’t consult with experts, in the very natureof things. We are not,” he said cynically, “the onlyvultures in the world. The country would be blackwith them. And when all’s said and done, we havefirst right. Why, look at El Dorado! Men sat downthere and cursed their luck—and looked straightat the richest gold mine in the world! This canyonwas here, everything was here, ready for them to goto work and get the gold just as we are going to do.But nobody thought of it. Sheep—that’s what menare. Not one in a thousand does any thinking outsidethe beaten path. Nobody had dammed the river toget the gold; they had no precedent to follow—no bellwether to show them the way. So nobody ever thoughtof the possibility of doing it. Old Jess, I must say,shot up head and shoulders above the ruck when heconceived the idea. His avariciousness and dwellingon that one thought all these years have given him amental twist. He’d kill any man who seemed to bestanding in his way. He’s gone too far now—he haslived with that air castle too long. But my God, thinkwhat a castle he’s built!” Peter’s voice was vibrantwith emotion. Here, as with Old Jess, was the dreamof a lifetime revealed.

“Yes—it’s a tremendous scheme,” Rawley admittedguardedly. “I’m afraid it won’t work, UnclePeter. It doesn’t, somehow, seem feasible.”

“Why not?” Peter’s voice challenged him.“Merely because you hadn’t thought of its feasibility.Nobody thought of it. Why, you’re like all the rest,son. You can’t think constructively. You must have aprecedent to hang onto with one hand, before you thinkout into the ocean of unguessed achievements. Fiftyyears ago, they would have shut you up in an asylumif you had declared it possible to telegraph withoutwires. How was the first telephone hooted? Andhistory tells us that a large faction of religious peopledeclared that anesthetics were contrary to the will ofGod, who meant that men should suffer.

“When I show you the canyon, back here, and explainto you how we mean to do it, you’ll have to admitthe simplicity of the thing. And that’s it! Thevery simplicity of it has prevented men from graspingit.” He laughed scornfully. “What a to-do aboutbuilding a dam they make! They must have governmentbacking, and political wirepulling, and they mustfiddle around for years with hundreds of men buildinga dam up from bedrock, with cement and stone! Waituntil I show you what we mean to do! Simplest thingin the world—since we don’t want canals for irrigationand only want to get at the river below. Even ifwe did want to divert the water, instead of restrainingit only, we could build our canals just the same, and atour leisure.

“But it’s all desert, above and below. Already I’vebought any little rancher out, that might have his landflooded when we build our dam.” Peter laughed againtriumphantly. “I’ll arrange to get possession beforewe’re ready to back up the water—”

“Will the government allow that?” Rawley’s tonewas troubled. So great a hold had Peter’s argumenttaken upon him that he found himself fearing that thegovernment might object.

Peter gave a contemptuous snort. “Give us a chanceto rake the gold out of the river bed below here, andwe can pay whatever fine or indemnity the governmentmay see fit to levy,” he retorted. “But why should itobject? We’ll be saving the folks away down belowhere a lot of trouble and loss from high water. They’vebeen howling for flood control ever since the ImperialValley began to be settled. The dams they’ve got don’tanswer the problem. Sooner or later, the government,or somebody, will have to put a dam in the river, upthis way. They will be mighty grateful, I should say,if we do it at our own expense while they’re talkingabout it.

“Then, if they want to, they can pay us for ourtrouble and go ahead and build their canals, or powerplants, or whatever they want. All we want is the goldthat has been washed down during a few thousandyears.” He lifted his arm and pointed down to wherethe river could dimly be seen moiling and grumblingover its rocky bed.

“You see how rocky it is? Figure for yourself whata perfect trap for gold every bowlder makes! Andthere is gold! You don’t deny that, do you?”

“Why, no. I can’t deny the very probable presenceof gold in considerable quantity.” This being ratherin the nature of a professional question, Rawley instinctivelyleaned toward conservatism in his reply.

“Well, that’s our object. We feel it’s going to beworth the expense of building the dam. Other peoplemay possibly want to make use of our dam, when theysee it. In that case, we should be able to get back atleast what money we are going to put into it. We’llknow, to a dollar. Nevada has got the education andtraining the rest of us lack and can tell us at a minute’snotice just what the work is costing us. That’s herjob. And Old Jess has signed a contract with us three.The idea was his in the first place, and the claims thatproduced the gold to do the work with are his—mostof them. He gets half of all the gold we take out.We repay, out of our share, one-half the expense ofbuilding the dam, and the three of us share equally inthe rest. In other words—I suppose I’ve put itclumsily—he takes half the net proceeds, we dividethe other half. And since we inherit, at his death, weare all satisfied.” He stood up and smiled down atRawley in the half darkness of early night.

“So you see, son, why I won’t need any of that goldyou and the Injun are looking for. I expect to bepretty well fixed myself, before so very long.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE LAND OF SPLENDID DREAMS

For days Rawley watched the might of the rushingColorado and wondered at the temerity of men whowould calmly plan to check its headlong progress tothe sea. A splendid dream, he was compelled to own;a dream worthy a better man than old Jess Cramer.But every man must have one vision of great thingsduring his life, else he would lack the spark of immortality.He may distort the vision to baser depths,but to each life is given one dream, one glimpse intothe realm of beautiful possibilities. So Jess Cramerhad dreamed his dream, had seen his vision, and hadheld aside the curtain so that others might see.

It interested Rawley in his days of helplessness toobserve the reactions of that dream upon the diversenatures that dwelt within the basin. Old Jess Cramerhad become a vulture in human form, his whole soulenslaved by the greed fostered by his individual conceptionof the vision. Rawley could look at the riverand picture Old Jess down in its slimy bed of mudbars, rocks and groping streamlets, wildly scrabblingamongst the gravel and stones for the gold his insatiable soul craved. He pictured Old Jess gloatingover his gold, weighing it in his hands, stupidly gogglingwithout the wit to give it for what pleasures hisspent old life could still enjoy.

Young Jess, too, had pulled the splendid vision downto his dull understanding. Young Jess, low-browed,sullen, would like to throw the gold with both handsinto the lap of brutish gratifications. Young Jess wasa gambler by nature, Rawley gleaned. He must neverbe let loose in a town, because he would have to behauled out in a drunken torpor, his pockets empty, hiscredit strained, his soul fresh blotted by vice. YoungJess had “sprees”; from Gladys Rawley learned that.So Young Jess was kept on a leash of family watchfulness.

“When we make our big clean-up,” Gladys confidedfrom the bench on the screened porch, her babynursing desultorily in its sleep, “Jess has gotta giveme half of his share fast as he rakes it in. I’m goingto have Peter see’t he does that—or we’ll be brokeag’in in no time. I’m going to put it where he can’tgit his fingers on it to gamble, you bet! And he runswith women—that sure makes the money fly! ButI guess they’ll be two of us, at that!” she tittered. “Iain’t so old yet I can’t git up some speed—give mesome decent clothes and di’mon’s. I’m going to SaltLake, an’ I’m going to have me the biggest car theyis on the market. My folks is got a car, down toNeedles—”

Anita,—Rawley was long in learning what wasAnita’s bright, particular vision. One day he askedher outright, since he could not lead her to talk abouther expectations in a general way. And straightwayhe was humbled and ashamed.

Anita looked at him stolidly, turned her great bulkand stared down at the river hurrying by in the middaysunlight. She lifted a hand to her eyes and stared outfrom beneath the flat of her brown palm.

“Gol’—if it can buy me back—t’ings I have love’—t’ingsI have los’ long time ago,” she murmured.“Gol’—it don’t buy young body—pretty face—voiceto sing like a bird. Gol’ don’t give back my girl—modderof Nevada. Pah-h!” She spat at the rivercontemptuously. “W’at I care for gol’?”

Nevada,—to her the dream was a splendid visionindeed. To her it was achievement—success—theopen door through which she might pass to a glorifiedfuture. Nevada, when pressed, admitted that sheloved pretty things—“And then, the world is so fullof people who want to be helped!”

Rawley nodded. “I know. I’ve felt that.”

“And if there is gold to be had, so that they canbe helped, I think it’s wicked not to use every ounceof energy we possess to get it, so that we can use it,”she declared with more enthusiasm than Rawley hadever seen her show. “When it’s fought for, just forsake of self-indulgence, it ought to be fought for inthe interests of good. I’d found a home for—well,almost anybody that needed it. And I want so totravel, Fifth Cousin! I don’t mean to spend more thantwo or three millions, just myself. I’m afraid I mightgrow reckless and extravagant. So I shall only holdout three million, at the most, for my own personalneeds. The rest I shall give away.” Whereupon shelaughed at him.

“You don’t really expect to be a lady billionaire?”Nevada sobered. “It’s such a big, untamed land,”she dreamed aloud, her young eyes on the river, asAnita’s had been. “If you don’t dream splendidly,you somehow feel that you’re too small for the desert.It’s a land of splendid visions, Fifth Cousin. Nevermind if they don’t come true. They’re like the sunsetsand the sunrises. They live, and they die, and theylive again, on and on—forever.” She lifted a tanned,rounded arm and pointed away to the floating, hazyblue of the horizon.

“That’s what I mean,” she said. “Can you lookat that and think small? Why, every old prospectorwho follows a burro along the desert trail has hisvisions. The dim distances promise him heart’s desire.Why else would he keep going? He’s a millionaire—inhis dreams. The next gulch may change his visionto reality. Think how the Spaniards came dreaming upthis very river, as long ago as when Washington waspraying for boots at Valley Forge! What broughtthem, but the splendid dreams—their visions of whatlay over the next hill?”

Her gaze dropped to the river. Just as every otheradult member of the Cramer family looked at the hurryingwater, so Nevada gazed and saw—not lostyouth and lost love, as did Anita, but the splendidfuture that would be hers when the river gave up itshoarded gold. She smiled and forgot to speak. Hervision held her entranced.

Peter’s dream was very like Nevada’s. Peter, asRawley knew, exulted over the achievement itself;the constructive thinking that left the beaten path ofthought and plunged boldly into the realm of unguessedpossibilities. The taming of a river that called itselfuntamable meant more to Peter than to Nevada, even.The gold would be his just reward for having dared toachieve the improbable.

Peter also craved emancipation from the petty roundof his isolated life. Around the world Peter wouldsail and learn of other lands and other peoples andthe problems which Fate had set them to solve. Peterwas willing to divert a part of his gold to the welfareof his fellow men, but he did not dream of that as didNevada. The building of the dam, the actual gettingof the gold, the splendid hazards of the undertaking,these things set Peter’s indigo-blue eyes alight withthe flame of his enthusiasm.

So even the tribe of Cramer dreamed, each accordingto the quality of his soul. And Rawley knew whyhis Uncle Peter stayed and worked shoulder-to-shoulderwith men whose half-relationship humiliated andembittered him. He knew why Nevada chose to remainhere, in an environment ludicrously unsuitable,inharmonious. Indian and white, they held, in variousforms, the same vision. There was somethingfine, something splendid in their even daring to dream.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RAWLEY INVESTIGATES

Came a time when Rawley felt fit enough for work;and this investigation of the wild, improbable schemeof the Cramers would be work, with every faculty ofthe engineer on the alert for his clients. For the othershe would not have attempted the thing he contemplated.He would have told them, more or less politely butnevertheless firmly, that the whole thing was out ofhis line and that he could not assume the responsibility.But for his Uncle Peter and for Nevada he would dothe best that was in him.

Old Jess and Young Jess still looked at him withsuspicious eyes, but they made no comment when heset off one morning with Peter to look over their work.They followed sullenly along the trail, ready, Rawleythought, to turn at the slightest indication of treacheryand pitch him over the edge of the cliff—if they could—asOld Jess had naïvely suggested to Peter.

Back to the tunnel Peter led him,—and within it.It was smaller than the usual mine tunnel, and fiftyfeet back from the portal two crosscuts ran parallelwith the face of the cliff for a distance of fifty feetin either direction. In the hard rock, working withhand drills, the excavations had been made at the expenseof infinite labor, Rawley could see. No car ortrack was there for removing the muck, which hadbeen taken out in a wheelbarrow. At the face of thetunnel, a winze had been sunk fifty feet, and fromthis two other crosscuts extended, apparently directlybeneath the upper ones.

Rawley saw it all, riding down the winze in thebucket, since he had but one arm of any use. WithUncle Peter at the windlass he felt perfectly secure—thoughhe would have refused the descent with one ofthe others, so great was his distrust of the Cramers,father and son.

When he returned, Peter conducted him down thestairway hewn into the cliff, and into the big launch.

“This is something we don’t let the world knowabout,” he remarked. “From Nelson we pack in suppliesthat any ordinary miner’s family would need—ifthey were just scratching a living out of their claims.You saw how we do it—with burros. Fifteen yearsago we began to work on that stairway and landing.It was a long, hard job. But I knew that we were goingto need some private way of getting supplies andmaterial in for the dam. Now, we can slip down toNeedles and get a boat-load and get back without thesepeople around here knowing it. Early morning, just atpeep of day, is the time I choose for running in here.On the far side of the river, none of the El Doradoprospectors would be apt to notice; and if they did, theywould think I was on my way farther north. Now,I’m going to take you across the canyon.”

Once out and fighting the current, Rawley saw atonce why it was that the Colorado was not considereda navigable river. There were no rapids in the canyon,properly speaking. But the pent volume of waterrushed through like a dignified mill race, and it wasonly Peter’s skill and the power of the motor thatlanded them across the canyon.

Here, a small eddy, with a break in the bold, granitewall, made a fair landing. Peter tied the launch securelyand led the way up a steep trail from thewater’s edge to a natural shelf, where another tunnelwith crosscuts was being run. As far as the contourof the cliffs would permit, the workings here were identicalwith those on the home shore, except that theywere not finished. They had just completed the winze.

“We can’t work over here except when the weatherand the river are favorable,” Peter explained. “AndOld Jess kept us at the gold diggings until we balked.He’d got that one idea so firmly fixed in his mind thathe wouldn’t let up when he had his million. He seemedto think a few months’ work would put the dam in, andit was next to impossible to pry him away from thegold grubbing. When we finally struck and refusedto put in another shift in the mine, he yielded the point.Now he’s in a fever to get this done. He’ll sit andwatch the river by the hour, just as you saw him thatnight he came down on us. Gloats and grudges byturns, I suppose. He doesn’t realize what a job it is—blowingenough rock into the canyon to dam theriver.”

“I wonder if you do, yourself!” Rawley remarkedlaconically and led the way out. “I want to studythese cliffs a bit from the outside. I’ve seen enough ofyour underground work.”

He spent two hours sitting on first one jutting rockpinnacle and then another, studying the cliffs andmaking sketchy diagrams and notes. A splendiddream, surely; but a dream wellnigh impossible, as hesaw it.

That evening after supper, he sent word to Peter thathe was ready to talk to him and would prefer to havethe Cramers present. Wherefore Peter brought themover to the cabin; Old Jess vulture-like and grim, andfairly bristling with suspicion, Young Jess surly, butwanting to know what was going on between Peterand this stranger. Rawley dragged chairs out to theporch and laid a diagram sketch on the small tablebeside him.

“I want to say first, to all of you,” he began gravely,“that I don’t approve of the scheme from any point ofview. Peter says that is because I think by rule; becausethe thing has never been done, and I thereforehave nothing to work from. However that may be, Iwarn you at the start that I don’t like it. I don’t believeyou can dam the river in the way you are goingat it. It’s a cinch you will have to alter your plansin certain ways, if you are to have any hope whateverof accomplishing the feat.

“I want to warn you that the government will probablyhave something to say about your performance.If the river had not been declared unnavigable, youwould be in trouble for obstructing the channel, if fornothing else. What Washington will say about it inthe circ*mstances, I can’t predict. I don’t know. Butif you persist in carrying out your scheme, be preparedfor trouble with the authorities. Red tape may windyou up tighter than you anticipate.

“With the understanding, then, that I absolutelydisapprove of the idea, I am going to give you myopinion of the most feasible method of making it asuccess. Of course, I needn’t point out to you thevery obvious fact that, if you don’t make a success ofit, you will lose every dollar you put into it, and probablyget into trouble just the same. If you spend afortune throwing rock into the river and fail to damthe flow so that you can carry on whatever operationsyou have in mind on the river bed below, you will beworse off than if you had not started. Therefore, I’mgoing to tell you how I think you should do it.”

“In other words, ‘Don’t do it—but if you do do it,do it this way,’” Nevada murmured mischievously.

“Something like that,” Rawley grinned. “In thefirst place, your work is far from finished. You willhave to put in relievers, to break the rock between yourcrosscuts and the face. That can be done by raising,or you can sink incline shafts from the surface. Mydiagram here shows approximately what I mean.Later, when my arm is well, I will, if you like, runyour lines for you. I have a small instrument for myown use.

“These relievers must be shot with dynamite, ofcourse. I suppose, having had long experience inmining, you know that you should use some dynamitefor breaking the rock, and black powder to lift andheave it over into the river. Since dynamite gives aquick concussion, the whole can be fired simultaneously;the black powder will follow the dynamite.

“What you should have, of course, is the advice ofexpert engineers who specialize in this sort of thing.It’s out of my line, and I am merely giving you myopinion for whatever it is worth—in soundness,” headded, catching a miserly chill in Old Jess’s eyes.“I couldn’t sell advice on a matter outside my profession,and in any case I am glad to do whatever I canto help you avoid mistakes. I am trying to see it asa mining problem—the opening of a glory hole, we’llsay.

“Your idea of crosscutting at different levels is agood one, but you should by all means break your rockto the surface, and so give your main explosives achance to lift it over. You see what I mean?” Helifted the diagram and held it up for them to see.“Here are your tunnel, winze and crosscuts. Thenhere are your relievers. An incline to the surface—orclose to the surface—as high as you wish the cliffto break. I shall have to survey that for you, to giveyou the proper pitch. Then these ‘coyote holes’ betweenthe apex and your adit—these will be filledwith dynamite. I wonder if you have formed anydefinite idea of how much powder and dynamite youare going to need!”

“Nevada and I have been working on that for fiveyears,” Peter said, and smiled. “We intend to useplenty.”

“I should hope so,” Rawley exclaimed. “Better afew tons too much, than to have all your work andmoney go for nothing. Make a dead-sure job of it,or—drop the scheme right here.”

This brought an ominous growl from the old manand Young Jess. Peter was studying the diagram.He passed it along to Young Jess, who scowled downat it intently, his slower mind studying each detaillaboriously. Old Jess reached out a grimy claw andbent over it like a vulture over a half-picked bone.

“I’m afraid you’ll have trouble getting your explosives,”Rawley observed. “The war is taking enormousquantities to Europe. And I’m afraid we’re goingto be dragged into the scrap ourselves. In which case,the government will probably shut off private buyersentirely.”

Young Jess laughed a coarse guffaw. “We shouldworry!” He leered at Rawley. “We got a glory holea’ready, back at the diggin’s. We been five years gittin’powder in here. Gosh! We c’d blow up Yerrup if wewanted to, ourselves! Y’ain’t showed him our powdercache, have yuh, Pete?”

“I didn’t know anything about that. It isn’t necessarythat I should,” Rawley broke in impatiently.“My concern is merely the engineering problem you’vegot on your hands. As to the details and the meansof putting the idea into execution, I’m not sure that Iwant to know. I might be hauled up as a witness,sometime—and what I don’t know I won’t have tolie about.”

“That’s right. That’s the way to talk,” Young Jessapproved. The diagram had evidently impressed himconsiderably. He stared at Rawley from under hisheavy, lowering brows. Though he spoke as any illiteratewhite man of the West would speak, he lookedlike a full-blooded Indian. Rawley wondered whichside of him did the thinking,—if any. The worst ofboth sides, he guessed shrewdly.

“We ain’t tellin’ more’n we’re obleeged to tell,” OldJess grumbled, lifting his greedy old eyes from thesketch. “We ain’t sharin’, neither! You’re eatin’ mygrub—two of ye—”

“Grandfather!” Nevada sprang up and faced theold man furiously. “How can you dare! Have youforgotten that Mr. Rawlins and his partner saved mylife and Grandmother’s? Oh, what a groveling lotof brute beasts we have become!”

“Mr. Rawlins is my affair,” Peter said sternly,catching Nevada’s hand as she would have passed himand pulling her down to his knee. “I brought himhere. He is doing this work for me. You two willprofit by it, though it will not cost you so much as a crustof bread. Nevada is right, except that you strike meas being more like vultures. All you think of is whatlies at the bottom of the river.

“The bigness of the achievement, the real significanceof a lifetime’s devotion to one tremendous demonstrationof man’s dominion over nature means lessthan nothing to you two. I asked Rawlins to lookover our work and advise us. He’s doing it. It’sonly by courtesy that you two were called in to hearwhat he has to say. It’s out of friendship for me thathe’s going on with his study of the problems we haveto solve.

“Why, damn you,” he flared out suddenly—for allthe world like King, of the Mounted—“you couldn’thire this man to do for you what he’s doing for me fornothing!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHANGED RELATIONS

Young Jess and Old Jess exchanged sidelongglances. Young Jess turned his head away from thegroup and spat out a quid of tobacco on to the porchfloor, whereat Nevada frowned her disgust.

“Yeah—we know all about him doin’ it fer you,”he leered. He eyed the two through half-closed lids.“You played it slick, but not slick enough. Whenyuh thought up a name fer him, Pete, you’d oughtastuck to it, ’stid of changin’ your mind first day hewas here. Gladys knows. He told Nevada one name,an’ you come along and changed it on him.

“Look at ’im, Dad! D’ yuh ever see father an’ sonlook more alike in your life? By—, you can’t makea fool outa me, Pete, nor outa Gladys. Why don’tyuh own up? We know you’re his daddy. You can’tclaim to me an’ Gladys you never throwed in with nowoman! Not with that face, right there, callin’ youa liar!”

Nevada started, and Peter’s arm around her tightenedrestrainingly. She did not speak, although herlips parted in astonishment. She looked at Rawleyand met his eyes fixed upon her questioningly. Nevadaflushed and turned away her face, hiding itagainst Peter’s cheek.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Uncle Peter?” she whisperedchidingly. “You could have trusted me—youknow you could.”

Peter’s arm tightened again. His face was turnedtoward the Cramers. His lips were drawn up a bitat the corners in a smile, but his eyes were hard.

“Well, and what of it?” he asked calmly. “Supposehe is my son—what then?”

Young Jess was prying off a fresh chew of tobaccofrom a half-plug that filled his palm.

“Nothin’, I guess. Only I want yuh to know we’rewise to you. You mighta come out with it, ’stid oflyin’ and beatin’ about the bush, that’s all. Any foolcan see you two’re close related. I seen it first thing,and so did Gladys.”

“Is it anybody’s business, besides his and mine?”Peter’s voice was still calm, though it boded ill forYoung Jess if he did not watch his tongue.

“Can’t say as it is,” Young Jess admitted. “Mebbyhis mother might think it was her business—whoevershe is.”

“Leave my mother out of this,” Rawley cried hotly.“She’s not—”

“Aw, what the hell do I care?” Young Jess roseand hitched up his sagging breeches. “Yuh can’t foolme—that’s all. And I will say I ain’t afraid to haveyuh go ahead and look the works over. My ownnephew wouldn’t double-cross his paw’s family, Iguess.”

He left them, turning his head once to grin knowinglyover his shoulder. Old Jess mumbled a generalcurse on all family ties, or anything that would interferewith his getting the gold out of the river, andfollowed. Ten steps away he saw what he believed tobe a joke and went off cackling, “Pete’s own son!he-he!”

Nevada shivered and pulled herself free from herUncle Peter’s arms. Her lips were pressed ratherfirmly together, and she avoided looking at either ofthe men.

“Well, you were the first to notice the likeness, Nevada,”Peter reminded her banteringly.

“And you were the first to—no, my cousin was thefirst to lie to me about it!” Her voice was coldly disapproving.“I’m very sorry—I did think that I wasworthy your full confidence, Uncle Peter. It seemsthat I have been mistaken all along. You have onlypretended to trust me, and all these years—thoughthat in itself doesn’t so much matter, since there mayhave been good reason for keeping the secret, evenfrom me. But when my—cousin came here, youmust have known immediately who he was, UnclePeter. It is that which hurts. You pretended to methat you never had seen him before, and that you werenot quite willing that he should stay. And he—oh,I hate you both!”

Her voice broke quite unexpectedly. She gave animpatient, spurning gesture and fled.

Peter got out the solacing “makings” of a cigarette.He glanced at Rawley queerly and gave a cynical smile.

“Talk about the beautiful faith of your own people,”he remarked philosophically. “Here’s a sample foryou. Even Nevada believes right away that I havelived a double life.”

“It makes it damned awkward—this resemblance,”Rawley muttered ruefully. “Young Jess ought tohave his block knocked off.”

“Dynamite wouldn’t feaze Young Jess,” Peter declared.“He and Gladys have cooked this up betweenthem. ’Twouldn’t have done any good to deny it, son.They wouldn’t believe it unless it suited them. Andif I convinced them, they’d want to know more thanever why we look so much alike. Poor old mother—Iwas thinking of her. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Not in the way you mean,” Rawley assured himdiscontentedly. “I only wish you were my father.That is, I would if—I hate to have Nevada feel thatwe both lied to her,” he blurted helplessly.

For once, Uncle Peter was dense. He laughedquietly to himself.

“Oh, she’ll get over that,” he declared easily.“That’s the drop of Spanish blood. Don’t you worryabout that, boy. On the whole, I’m rather relieved.I’ve caught Young Jess eyeing you; Old Jess, too, andeven Gladys noticed, I think. I was waiting for oneof them to mention the resemblance between us. Iwas braced for it. I meant to laugh it off, as just theirimagination. This way, they think they have it all accountedfor. It does save a good deal of dangerousspeculation. I’m not guessing. I know that Old Jessused to take spells of jealousy. Anita—mother—hasalways been afraid of him. When I was just a kid,I threw up his gun when it was pointed at her heart,and the quarrel was over your—over my father.Something had brought up the subject, some chanceremark. The Spanish in her flamed up, and she toldhim that she loved King. Then he pulled the gun. Hemay have been drunk—I don’t remember that part.

“So you see, son, I know why she’s in deadly fearof having him find it out. And there are other reasonswhy none of them must know. While he and YoungJess think I’m a Cramer, they will listen to me. Ican keep things straight here. If they knew the truth,I’d probably have to leave.” He lighted the cigarette,and Rawley watched his face revealed for a momentby the flare of the match.

“Boy,” he went on, turning toward Rawley, “I’vegot to stay. I’ve grown up, I’ve spent my whole lifedreaming of the dam. It isn’t what we’ll get out of it,altogether, though it’s human and natural to want thegold, too. It’s the dam. I’ve planned and worked forit so long. I’ve got to see it go through.”

He smoked and meditated for awhile, staring downat the river, always slipping past him, always in ahurry to meet the tides; to mingle its mountain waterwith the salt of the ocean.

“I saw two men drown out there, once.” He waveda hand toward the river. “I’d like to stop it running,just to show it who’s master here.” Another silence,and then he looked at Rawley. “You don’t mind beingthought my son?” There was a wistfulness in histone. “If I thought you minded—”

Rawley shook himself out of his mood. He leanedforward and forced himself to smile at Peter.

“I don’t mind, at all,” he lied. “I hate to haveNevada think that I deliberately lied to her because Iwas ashamed of any such relationship. I—want tokeep her confidence and respect—”

Strange words for the leaden depression that hadcome over him at her anger, but he was fairly sincerein their employment. He believed—because he wasforcing himself to believe—that he merely liked Nevadavery much, and admired her, and was anxious topreserve the friendly relations into which they haddrifted. It amused him to be called “Fifth Cousin”in that whimsical tone she used for the term.He thrilled a little whenever she reminded himthus of the make-believe relationship. To be calledher cousin was somehow quite different. Therewas a chill in the word,—and any young manwould rather be thrilled than chilled by a girl asbeautiful, mentally and physically, as was Nevada.

“I’ll tell her you didn’t know you were my son,”Peter was calmly planning aloud. “She’ll believe it,if I tell her so. I have never lied to Nevada in mylife. She’ll believe whatever I tell her about this affair.She’s bound to.” He chuckled under his breath,still blinded by his relief at the attitude his familyhad taken. “A reputation for honesty comes in handy,sometimes!”

“You don’t think, then, that it would be wise totell Nevada the straight of it?” In spite of himself,Rawley spoke constrainedly. He wanted to appearnonchalant, even amused, but he knew that he was betrayinghimself to any man who chanced to observehim.

“I don’t. The truth is not our secret, boy. It belongsto a silent, sad old woman who never speakswhat’s in her heart and so is not considered as havingany feelings. Do you think the taint of Indian relationswill do you the slightest harm? Tell me honestly.”

“No. I’m young, but I have made a certain namefor myself for all that. I have the name of neverhaving been bought and never leaving a job until Ihave the correct data. My clients have never yet inquiredinto my personal affairs. They never will.They know I’m an American; that’s about all thatcounts, these days, so far as your blood ties go.”

“There isn’t one chance in fifty that this will everbe known, even in this district. We keep to ourselves.The old man has made it plain, ever since I can remember,that he doesn’t want his neighbors to comearound the place. If you inquire amongst the minersand prospectors, you will hear that we are a toughoutfit and best let alone. It is believed, as I told you,that we’re just a bunch of breeds digging out a littlegold—enough to support us. Dad’s a half-crazysquaw-man, and Young Jess is mighty unpopular.Whatever business must be taken care of outside, Iattend to myself. Or Nevada sometimes does it forme. She never talks with people except when it’snecessary. Whenever she goes to Nelson, or to LasVegas, my mother goes with her.

“Nevada would not mention the matter, in anycase, but I must ask you not to tell her. Mother isalmost uncanny at reading faces. She’d see at oncethat we had told the girl. She worships Nevada. Itwould break her heart if she saw that Nevada knewher secret. She’s afraid of Old Jess, but that’s partlybecause of what it would mean to the girl. She thinksNevada would despise her for the sin of her youth.That’s the way she put it, and there’s this about anIndian: You can’t pry an idea out of their minds,once it’s firmly planted. Poor old mother broods overthese things. She feels as if Nevada is her one hopeof heaven, almost. To keep that girl pure and sweetis her religion. I promised her, by everything that shecalled sacred, that Nevada should never know; atleast, not so long as her grandmother lives. So that’swhy,” he finished gently, “I’m pleased at the turn it’staken. I don’t mind anything they may hatch up aboutme, if it will protect poor old mother.”

Rawley felt humbled. He remembered how oldAnita had spat her contempt of the gold that couldnot buy her the things she had loved,—and lost. Inthat gross, shapeless body, who could say how fine asoul might be hidden?

“It’s all right,” he said, after a minute. “I’ll haveto warn Johnny Buffalo, and then I’ll adopt you for mydad, if you like. I can see how it simplifies mattershere. But I’m afraid Nevada never will forgive—”

“Oh, she’ll be proud of her new cousin, once sherecovers from the shock of not being told first thing,”Peter assured him gratefully. “I’m afraid I’ve spoiledthat girl.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE JOHNNY BUFFALO UPRISING

Johnny Buffalo was on the warpath. Figurativelyspeaking, he was brandishing the tomahawk overthe tribe of Cramer. The gods he worshiped had beenblasphemed, the altar upon which he laid the gifts ofhis soul had been defiled.

In other words, Johnny Buffalo had lain in his bedand listened while Young Jess and his father jibed atJohnny Buffalo’s two idols, in whose veins flowed theblood of his beloved sergeant. The blood of the Kingsmight not be made a mockery while Johnny Buffalocould lift one arm to fight. When Rawley returned tohim, he was discovered out of his bed, braced against atable and trying unsuccessfully to load the old King riflewhich he had first used to kill Mohaves on that day,fifty years ago, when King, of the Mounted, receivedthe shot that changed his whole life.

The old Indian was shaking with weakness, but hiseyes blazed with the war spirit of his tribe.

“They are dogs of Pahutes!” he exclaimed, whenRawley entered the room. “They would drag thevirtue of good men in the mud. They shall retract.They shall know the truth! Or I shall kill.”

With three long steps Rawley was beside him, hishand on the rifle barrel, touching the trembling, sinewyhand of Johnny Buffalo. But the old man would notyield the gun. His eyes neither softened nor loweredthemselves before the steadfast blue eyes that were theheritage of the Kings.

“You better get back to bed,” Rawley warned him,half-laughing. “If Peter comes and finds you up,there’ll be the devil and all to pay. I guess we won’tmassacre anybody, Johnny,—at least not to-night.”

“I heard the half-breed make a mock of Peter andof you. I heard him say that Peter is your father.When he said that, he laughed. His laugh was evil.Now he shall kneel upon his knees and beg the forgivenessof Peter and of you. He shall say that he spoke alie from his black heart that would like to see othersvile, because he is vile. If he does not say that helied, I shall kill him. And that half-breed cousin,Anita, shall own her sin and her son. It is not goodthat Peter should be thought the son of that old vulture,when we know that he is the son of my sergeant.He is not your father. He is your uncle. I will tellthem so, and we will see then if they laugh!”

If unshakable dignity can rave, then Johnny Buffalowas raving. Rawley tried again to take the riflegently from the Indian’s grasp; but the brown fingersseemed to have grown fast to the barrel. Rawley hatedto do it, but his word had been given to Peter and thisunforeseen uprising must be quelled; he therefore tookJohnny Buffalo firmly by the shot shoulder. The oldman wilted in his grasp. Rawley leaned the rifleagainst the table and helped Johnny Buffalo back tohis bed.

Subdued but knowing no surrender, Johnny Buffalolay glaring up at Rawley, even while his lips weretwisted with pain. With a singularly motherly motion,Rawley adjusted the pillows and smoothed the sheet.

“That’s a nice way to act—start out gunning formy adopted family the minute I get one!” he scoldedwith mock severity. “Can’t leave you a minute butyou jump the reservation and go on the warpath. Andhere I thought you were civilized!”

He grinned, but in Johnny Buffalo’s eyes the firedid not die. His thin, old lips would not soften to asmile. The immobility of his face reminded Rawleyof what his Uncle Peter had just said about Indians:that it is impossible to pry an idea out of their minds,once it is firmly fixed there. Nevertheless, he sat downbeside the bed and repeated to Johnny Buffalo all thatPeter had said concerning Young Jess’s charge. Hewas wise enough, however, to refrain from any attemptto rouse sympathy in Johnny’s heart for thatpathetic culprit, Anita. Rather, he flattered himselfby declaring that Peter was pleased because the tribe ofCramer believed him Rawley’s father, and he emphasizedthe need of protecting Peter’s influence over thetwo men, and his and Nevada’s interest in the rivergold. The mocking laughter of Young Jess, he declared,was not worthy a second thought.

It took Rawley just three hours to bring about anunconditional surrender to Peter’s wishes in the matter.Even so, Rawley went to his own bed fa*gged butfeeling that he had done pretty well, consideringJohnny Buffalo’s first intention. But as an indemnityto the old man’s pride, Rawley had faithfully promisedthat he would get their camp outfit up from its hidingplace on the morrow, and that he would pitch their tentas far as was practicable from the tribe of Cramer.Johnny Buffalo, it appeared, would not attempt to holdhimself responsible for what might happen if he werecompelled to listen to further inanities from Gladys,or to hear the voices of Old Jess or Young Jess orAnita. Nevada he very kindly excepted from the generalcondemnation of the tribe. And Peter, of course,was a King. He therefore could do no wrong,—inthe eyes of Johnny Buffalo.

It was a secret relief to Rawley that the changecould be placed in the form of a concession to theIndian’s pride. His own pride was demanding thathe should move under his own canvas roof and eat thebread—so to speak—of his own buying. He hadnever felt quite right about taking Nevada’s cabin.He happened to know that their occupancy had forcedher to many little makeshifts. Then the jibe of OldJess had made his position as a guest intolerable, in spiteof the quick championship of Nevada and Peter. Hehad felt obliged to consider, however, Johnny Buffalo’swelfare. The old man was not recovering as quicklyas he should. Rawley had felt constrained to stay onhis account; but now it seemed likely that a change totheir own tent would really be beneficial. He had notdreamed that Johnny Buffalo’s Indian pride had beendaily martyred by the presence of Anita and Gladys.

“The scion of chiefs,” Johnny Buffalo had declaimedbitterly, “should not be forced to become acompanion of the squaws. Anita knows the etiquetteof our tribe. Yet she would humiliate me by forcingme to listen to her chatter. Bah! I am not a squaw,nor a lover of squaws. Take me to our camp, my son.There I need not submit to the indignity of their presence.”

So the next morning, when Peter stopped by theporch for a minute on his way to work, Rawley toldhim honestly what it was that he and Johnny Buffalohad burned a light so late the night before to discuss.Peter seemed to understand and offered the burros andNevada for his service. Rawley grinned over the mannerin which Peter had made the offer, but he made nocomment. The burros and Nevada would be very acceptable,he said.

“I had a talk with Nevada last night,” Peter added.“You’ll find she’s all over her temper. And she knowsall the good camping places between here and El Dorado.You couldn’t stay down there in the canyon; it’stoo hot. There are places, like this basin, where thebreeze strikes most of the day. I want you close.I’ll have Nevada show you a place down the river, onone of my claims. I don’t suppose you’ll object tocamping on my land, will you?”

Rawley would not, and he said so. And after breakfasthe started out with Nevada, following the twoburros which went nipping down the river under emptypacksaddles. There seemed to be certain advantages inbecoming a cousin of Nevada, Rawley discovered.Their chaperonage had been practically abandoned;they were accompanied by the burros and only one dog.The trailing cloud of young Cramers were sharplycalled off by Aunt Gladys, and Nevada drove the otherdogs back with rather accurately aimed stones. Anita,for some reason which Rawley was not sufficientlyacute to fathom, failed altogether to put in an appearance.It was the first time since Rawley came into thebasin that Nevada prepared to set off without hergrandmother.

Nevada, in her high-laced boots, khaki breeches andwhite shirt open at the throat, walked with her easystride down the faint trail behind the burros. Rawleyfollowed her, wondering man-fashion whatthoughts she was thinking, how she felt about him,whether she was glad to be setting out like this withhim for trail partner instead of her grandmother, andwhat she thought of him as a cousin.

He was not a particularly shy young man; there wastoo much of his grandfather in his make-up not to havehad certain little romantic adventures of his own. Hewould have told you, with a bit of cynicism in his tone,that he knew girls and that they were all alike. Buthe was beginning to discover that he did not knowNevada Macalister. Now that he seemed to have becomeirrevocably her cousin by diplomacy and tribalbelief, he was disposed to make what use he could ofthe relationship. But after half a mile of travelingwith no more than an occasional monosyllable for Nevada’scontribution to the conversation, Rawley wascompelled to admit to himself that the cousin businesswas not working as he would like to have it.

In view of her emotional outbreak last night, Rawleycould not quite bring himself to the point of askingher outright how she liked her new cousin. But thequestion kept tickling his tongue, nevertheless. Thenhe reflected that Nevada was rather generously suppliedwith cousins, none of them definitely desirable.From that thought it was only a short jump to thenext inevitable conclusion. Nevada, he decided, hadplaced him mentally alongside those other pestiferouscousins, the offspring of Gladys and Young Jess. Orif she had not, she was surely according him the sametreatment.

As a romantic chapter in their acquaintance, the tripwas a flat failure. Nevada was businesslike,—andaloof. Rawley’s faint hope that some unforeseen incidentwould occur to shock Nevada out of her insouciant mood died of inanition. The camp outfit theyfound exactly as it had been left, except that a rat hadrashly decided to make a nest in a fold of the wrappedtent. This did not seem to interest Nevada in theslightest degree. She helped him with the packing anddid not seem to care whether he hurt his newly healedarm or not. They returned as they had gone,—Nevadasilent, following the burros that plodded sedatelyhomeward under their loads, Rawley trailingafter her in complete discouragement over the rebuffshis friendly overtures had received.

They did not so much as see a rattlesnake.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE EAGLE STRIKES

The month of inaction which followed frettedJohnny Buffalo nearly as much as the companionshipof the squaws had done. In his boyhood he had beentrained to serve his sergeant. For fifty years thatservice had been uninterrupted by ill health or accident.It irked him now to lie idle and watch Rawley burn hisfingers on the handle of the frying pan, or wash thedishes from which Johnny Buffalo had been fed.

The long days when Rawley was away with Peterwere lonesome. There was nothing to do but to seeksedulously after comfort, which is so rare a thing ina camp beside the Colorado in summer that every littlewhiff of cool breeze is prized, every little change in themonotonous diet makes an impromptu banquet. SometimesNevada walked down to camp with things sheherself had cooked; but Johnny Buffalo had takencare to insult Gladys and Anita so definitely that theyrefused to come near him.

“I am well enough now to walk,” he announcedone evening, when he had insisted upon cooking thesupper. “To-day I climbed to the top of that hill.In a sack on my shoulder I carried a rock that weighedtwenty-five pounds. I am well. We can go now andfind the gold.”

“You packed a rock up that hill?” Rawley laid hishands on his hips and squinted at the hill indicated.“You ought to get sun-struck for that. But if youthink you’re up to it, we can hit the trail to the mountainabout day after to-morrow. I’ll have to drive upto Nelson to-morrow to get more grub and the mail.You might borrow the burros from Peter and meet meat the mouth of the canyon. That will save time andgive you a chance to try out your shoulder.”

Johnny Buffalo actually grinned and stepped morebriskly than was his normal gait, as if he would provehimself as spry as any young man of twenty-six.

Thus for ten days they wandered through rockygorges, and climbed the steep sides of hills, and returnedto their camp for fresh supplies and a day ortwo of rest. The “great and high mountain” in thedistance had seemed to recede before them as theywalked. They had been three days in reaching itsbase. Another two days had served to take them overthe top and down on the other side westward. Theretheir trail seemed to end, for that side of the mountainwas almost entirely covered with loose rubble of decomposedrock. There were no cliffs or jagged rocksanywhere that they could see.

Since Peter had burned the code, and the list ofreferences was in St. Louis with Grandfather’s Bible,they were compelled for the present to depend altogetheron memory. But Rawley could repeat the codefrom beginning to end without hesitation. The onlyexplanation, then, of their failure was that either hehad made a mistake somewhere in writing down themarked passages or Grandfather King had markedthem wrong.

Rawley astonished Nevada somewhat by asking toborrow her Bible. But when he received it he couldnot remember the references, so that he was no betteroff than before. One thing was certain: the only greatand high mountain within sight of El Dorado, lookingnorth, with “Cedar trees in abundance scattered overthe face of the high mountain” had no cliffs upon itswestern side. When the mountain itself failed tomeasure up with the description, the whole code fellflat. It was a big country, and it was a roughcountry. A man might spend a lifetime in thesearch.

“My sergeant did not lie,” Johnny Buffalo contendedstubbornly. “He was a great man. He didnot make mistakes. When he said the gold was there,in the clefts of the jagged rocks, it was there. Hesaid it.”

“He said it—fifty years ago,” Rawley retortedrather impatiently. “I didn’t see any gold formationanywhere on that mountain. It’s true that ‘Gold iswhere you find it’; but it leaves earmarks in its particularneighborhood for the man who knows how toread the signs. If there is any gold on that mountain,some one carried it there.”

“There is gold where my sergeant said there isgold,” Johnny Buffalo insisted. “I shall look until Ifind.”

“You will need winter quarters, then,” Rawley observedgrimly, rummaging for his sweater. Octoberwas hard upon them, and the wind was chill. “Tellyou what, Johnny. I’ll have to get out and earn somemore money, anyway. I have a dandy offer that camein the last mail. It’s a big job, and it ought to net mea thousand dollars, easy. You remember that springwe passed, back here three or four miles? It isn’t farfrom the trail. There’s plenty of wood, and a littleprospecting there might turn up something. I noticedas we came through that the country looked prettygood. I’ll help build you a cabin there and get youfixed up for winter. Then I’ll go and report on thismine—and come back, maybe, after I’m through.Peter’ll see that you have everything you need whileI’m gone.”

Johnny Buffalo nodded approval. “All winter Iwill hunt for the gold my sergeant gave you,” he declared.“He said it was on the high mountain. Ishall find it.”

Rawley had long ago learned that argument was awaste of time and breath. All the while they werebuilding the cabin, Johnny Buffalo talked of findingthe gold while Rawley was gone; and Rawley did notdiscourage him. He was saving a secret for the oldman, and he was in a hurry to have it complete beforehe must leave.

Rawley’s mother had offered for sale the furnitureand belongings of the west wing, and Rawley had surreptitiouslybought them for a fair price through thefriendly dealer who had known him since Rawley wasa child. The things were stored ready for shipping.Rawley wrote for them; and on the day when the truckwas to bring them to the end of the road nearestJohnny’s winter quarters, he encouraged Johnny tostart on a two-day trip to the mountain. Peter andNevada arrived with the burros before Johnny hadmuch more than walked out of sight.

Never mind what it cost those three in haste andhard work. When Johnny Buffalo dragged himselfwearily to the cabin at dusk on the second day, hewalked into an atmosphere poignantly familiar. Eventhe wheel chair had arrived with the rest of the things.That, however, Rawley had left crated and stored inthe little shed adjoining the cabin. Everything elsehe had unpacked and arranged as he had seen them inthe west wing.

Peter and Nevada had lingered, waiting for the oldman’s return; but after all they lacked the courage tofollow him when he went inside. He was gone a longwhile. The three sat out on a rock before the cabinand watched the moon slide up from behind a jaggedpeak across the river. They did not talk. Splendiddreams held them silent,—dreams and their consciouswaiting for Johnny Buffalo.

Even when he came from the cabin there was nospeech amongst them; Johnny Buffalo looked asthough he had been talking with angels.

A few days after that, Rawley went away to hiswork, content because he had wheedled from Nevadaa promise to write to him and keep him informed ofJohnny Buffalo’s welfare and the progress of the dam.He expected to return in a month. But instead ofcoming he wrote a long letter.

He had finished the mine report and was about toleave for Washington, he said. The president of theSchool of Mines where he had studied wrote him, askingif he would not offer his services to the government,which was badly in need of men for researchwork. Minerals hitherto in little demand had suddenlybecome tremendously important,—for while thecountry was not yet at war it was quietly preparingfor such an emergency. He told Nevada that, muchas he disliked to change his plans, it was too good achance to pass up, even if his loyalty to the governmentdid not impel him to accept the tacit offer. Hewould come in contact with some of the biggest menin the game, he wrote.

In April, when war was actually declared, Rawleywas already thoroughly shaken down into his job. Hestill wrote twice a month to Nevada, but his lettersbecame shorter,—as if they were written in strayminutes snatched from his duties. An interesting assortmentof postmarks Nevada collected during theensuing two years. Every State in the Union thatcould flaunt a mineral product seemed to be represented.Her replies were usually about two jobs behindhim, so that letters with the Nelson, Nevada,postmark trailed patiently after Rawley wherever hewent.

During the war, his mother saw him just once, whenhe happened to be passing through St. Louis and couldstop over for a few hours. Johnny Buffalo, Peter,and Nevada saw him not at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY
NEVADA ANALYZES

On a certain day in June, Rawley left his car atNelson and started afoot down the trail to Cramers.Although the war was over he was still in the serviceof the government. A bit leaner, a bit harder-muscled,steadier of eye and of purpose, with a broadervision, too. Rawley had been making good.

After more than two years away from this particularpoint on the Colorado, old emotions came sweepingback upon him as he caught sight of this bold peak orthat wild gorge, familiar landmarks along the trail.Halfway to Cramers, he turned aside and followed adim trail that went climbing tortuously up a narrowcanyon and so reached a bold hillside where the cabinof Johnny Buffalo squatted snugly beside the spring.

Johnny was absent,—probably still hunting for thegold, Rawley thought, as he grinned to himself. Afterso long a time spent wholly in service to others, withthe weal of his country always in the front of hismind, the search for his grandfather’s gold mineseemed a shade less important than it had been twoyears ago. He had the Bible and the old diary withhim, but that was partly to please Johnny Buffalo andbecause he thought the books might be interesting toPeter. For himself he had not much hope of findingthe cleft in the rocks; for Johnny Buffalo the questwould be a wholesome object in life. Johnny Buffalowould continue the search from no selfish motive, butin a zeal for Rawley’s welfare. There was a difference,Rawley thought, in the way you go at a thing.

He left a note for Johnny on the table and went ondown the hill and back into the trail to the river. Atthe edge of the basin he stopped and surveyed thesomewhat squalid huddle of buildings, wondering whyit was he felt almost as if this were a home-coming.Perhaps it was a fondness for his Uncle Peter, andbecause Nevada had kept the place fresh in his mindwith the letters she had written him.

Two strange dogs were added to the hystericallybarking pack that rushed out at him as he drew near.Five children instead of four grouped themselves andstared. Gladys appeared in the open doorway of hercabin; a fatter Gladys, with another baby riding astrideher hip. The tribe of Cramer was waxing strong.

He was sure that Gladys recognized him, but withthe stolidity of the race which dominated her nature,she merely stared and gave no sign of welcome. Rawleykicked a dog or two that seemed over-serious intheir intentions and kept straight on. When he reachedthe hard-trodden zone immediately before the cabin,he lifted his hat and spoke to Gladys.

“Hullo,” she grinned fatuously. “We don’t see youfor a long time.”

Anita came to the door, looked out and nodded withan imperturbable gravity that always disconcertedRawley. He asked for Peter and Nevada. Peter wasat work, Gladys told him vaguely. And the clickingof a typewriter in the rock dugout told him whereNevada might be found.

Rawley was amazed, almost appalled at the agitationwith which he faced her. In the press of hiswork, of meeting strange people and seeing strangeplaces, he had thought the image of Nevada wasblurred; a charming personality dimmed by distanceand the urge of other thoughts, other interests. Butwhen he held her hand, looked up into her eyes as shestood on the step of the porch, he had a curious sensationof having been poignantly hungry for her all thiswhile. He found himself fighting a desire to takeher in his arms and kiss her red mouth that was smilingdown at him. He had to remind himself that hehadn’t the right to do that; that Nevada had nevergiven him the faintest excuse to believe that he wouldever be privileged to kiss her.

He sat in the homemade chair on the porch and,because looking at Nevada disturbed him unaccountably,he stared down at the river while they talked.He wondered if Nevada really felt as unconcernedover his coming as she sounded and looked. She wasfriendly, frankly pleased to see him,—and he resentedthe fact that she could speak so openly of her pleasure.She could have said to any acquaintance the things shesaid to him, he told himself savagely; she was like allher letters, friendly, unconstrained, impersonal. Itamazed him now to remember that he had been delightedwith her letters. If at first he had wishedthem more diffident, as if she felt the sweet possibilitiesof their friendship, he had come to thank the goodLord for one sensible girl in the world. Nevada hadno nonsense, he frequently reminded himself. Shedidn’t expect the mushy love-making flavor in theircorrespondence. He could feel sure of Nevada.

Now it maddened him to feel so sure of her; so sureof her composed friendliness that left no little crannyfor love to creep in. She liked him,—in the sameway that she liked Peter. He could even believe thatshe liked him almost as well as she liked Peter; thathe stood second in her affections before all the world.Covertly he studied her whenever the conversationmade a glance into her eyes quite natural and expected.She met each glance with smiling unconcern,—themost disheartening manner a lover canface.

“You’ve grown, Cousin Rawley,” she said. “Yes,I’ve got your home name on my tongue—fromJohnny Buffalo, I suppose. Well, you have grown.I don’t mean your body alone, though you have filledout and your shoulders look broader and stronger,somehow, even though you may not weigh a poundmore. But you’ve grown mentally. There’s astrength in your face—an added strength. Andyour eyes are so much different. You keep me wondering,in between our talk, what is in your mind—backof those eyes. That’s a sure sign that a great,strong soul is looking out. It’s been an awful twoyears, hasn’t it?”

“It has,” Rawley answered quietly, his mind revertingswiftly to several close squeaks from the enemyat home.

“Two years ago you’d have said ‘You bet!’ justlike that. ‘It has’ wouldn’t have seemed expressiveenough. That’s what I’m driving at. Now you canjust say ‘It has’, and something back of your eyesand your voice gives the punch. Cousin Rawley, youcan cut out all exclamatory phrases from now on, ifyou like. The punch is there. I’ve seen other menback from service. One or two had that same reservepower. The others were merely full of talk abouthow they won the war. It’s funny.”

Rawley did not think it was funny. She had liftedhis heart to his throat with her flattering analysis andhad dropped it as a child drops a toy for some fresherinterest. He was all this and all that,—and she hadseen other men return with the same look. Rightthere Rawley silently indulged himself in his strongestexclamatory phrase in his vocabulary.

Nevada had turned her head to call something inIndian, replying to her grandmother’s shrill voice.She did not see what lay back of Rawley’s eyes at thatmoment,—worse luck.

“Well, I wanted to get in and help. Gladys andGrandmother knitted sweaters and socks, and so didI. I wanted to be a Red Cross nurse—was there agirl in America who didn’t?—but Uncle Peterwouldn’t let me go. He said I was needed here, tohelp hold things together. But I’ll tell you what Idid do. I went into the old diggings and mined. Ifound a stringer or two they hadn’t bothered with, andI mined for dear life and sent every last color to theRed Cross. Uncle Peter was helping, too—I meangiving all he could—but I wanted to do somethingmy own self. And do you know, Cousin Rawley,Grandmother got right in with me and shoveled gravelto beat the cars! I didn’t write you about it—itseemed so little to do. And besides, I didn’t realizethen the importance of living up to you. But withthat—that Sphinxlike strength you’ve acquired, I’lljust inform you that your Injuns were on thejob.”

“I knew it, anyway. And you did more good thanyour personal service in hospital could have done. Ittook money to keep the nurses going that were on thejob, remember.”

“Two years ago,” mused Nevada, “you’d havecalled me on that Sphinx remark and for calling myselfInjun. Yes, you have grown. You can keep tothe essential point much better than before. Well,and how is Johnny Buffalo? I haven’t seen him fora week.”

“Nor I for over two years. I left a note on histable. Nevada, how long has he had that wheel chairof Grandfather’s standing across the table from hisown?”

Nevada looked at him studyingly until Rawley, forall his vaunted strength, found his eyes sliding awayfrom the directness of her gaze.

“Cousin Rawley, if you have grown hard, youwon’t sympathize with Johnny Buffalo, or understand.For more than a year, now, he has believed that hissergeant comes and sits in that chair to keep him company.He really believes it. You mustn’t laugh athim, will you?”

Rawley was staring down at the always hurryingriver. He said nothing.

“Just don’t laugh at Johnny,” Nevada urged.“And don’t argue with him. It’s a comfort to himto believe that. He doesn’t always keep the chair atthe table. Sometimes it is by the window, or close tothe fire when I go there. I think he moves it just ashe would if your grandfather were living there withhim.”

“That’s nonsense!” Rawley spoke sharply.

“It’s a comfort to Johnny Buffalo,” Nevada observedcalmly. “I’m glad I saw you first, if that isyour attitude. Johnny Buffalo has been brighter andhappier, ever since he first thought he saw your grandfather walk in at the door and stand smiling down athim. He insists that his sergeant has his legs back,and that not a day passes but he comes and sits awhilewith him. He—there’s something he won’t tell me,but he’s very anxious to see you, especially. I thinkit is something concerning your grandfather.”

“Oh, well, if it’s any comfort to the old man—”Rawley frowned, but his tone was yielding.

“Then do, please, act as if you believed your grandfatheris there when Johnny says he is there! Youneedn’t pretend to see him. I never do. I always sayI can’t see him; and then Johnny Buffalo tells me justhow he looks, and what he says. It pleases him so!He will be sure to have his sergeant meet you, CousinRawley. And you must pretend to believe. He’s justwaiting for you to come, so that something importantcan take place. He wouldn’t even tell Uncle Peterwhat it is.” Nevada leaned dangerously toward Rawleyand laid a hand on his, apparently as unconsciousof the possible results as is a child who picks up anexplosive.

“Promise me, Cousin Rawley, that you’ll be carefulnot to hurt Johnny’s feelings.” Her hand closedwarmly over his.

Rawley’s silence was not the stubbornness sheseemed to think it. He was holding his teeth clampedtogether, trying to reach that quiet strength of soulshe had naïvely credited him with possessing. He hadtried to hold himself together, to refrain from makinga fool of himself, and she had mistaken the effort forstrength of soul, he thought with secret chagrin. Oh,as to Johnny Buffalo—

“I should feel very badly if I knew that I had hurtany one’s feelings,” he said. “Least of all, JohnnyBuffalo. If he can be happy with an hallucination, Ishall not disturb his happiness. But that means amental letting go, according to my way of thinking.When he takes to having delusions, he’s weakening.I don’t like that. I can’t be with him, you see. Ihave a few days to myself, and then I must be on thejob again.”

“Oh. I thought you would be here for awhile,anyway.”

Rawley tried to extract some comfort from Nevada’stone of regret. But her regret was, after all, too candidto mean anything especial, he feared. He did notmake the mistake of asking her if she really mindedhis going again so soon.

“How is the dam coming along?” That, at least,would be a sane subject, he hoped.

“Oh—it’s coming along. I believe they’re allacross the river, to-day.”

She did not seem eager to pursue that subject,either. He began to wonder more than ever what wasin her mind. Something she would not talk about,he knew. But presently she pulled herself out of herpreoccupation.

“Can you imagine that sliding volume of waterbeing halted in all its hurry and made to stop runningto the gulf; thwarted in its whole purpose?” she askeddreamily. “I’ve watched it all my life. Sometimesit’s savage and boils along, with driftwood and débrisof all kinds—I saw it at Needles, once, in flood time.It was awful. Then to think how three men havelived beside it and planned and worked for years andyears, to stop all that tremendous movement and penit up in the hills and—it seems to me that it’s like life.It goes hurrying along, too, for years and years, andits power is devastating and awful, sometimes. Andthen—after all, it’s so easy to stop it.”

“Yes,” said Rawley, his thoughts forced back againto things he would like to forget. “It’s easy to stopit. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. “A manstanding so close to me our shoulders rubbed wasstopped in the middle of a sentence. We were talking.I asked him something about the mine. He wastelling me. A cable broke, and the end of it snappedour way and caught him in the head. Life stoppedright there, so far as he was concerned. He wasn’tgiven time to finish what he was saying.”

Nevada was staring at him, her lips parted, theeasy flow of her thoughts halted by the horror ofthe picture he had drawn with a few quiet words.So few words—spoken so quietly, she thought fleetingly.

“I—didn’t know—right beside you! It mighthave—Weren’t you hurt?”

Rawley lifted a hand to his cheek, where a fine,white line was drawn.

“The tip of one strand flicked me there,” he said.“Made a nasty gash.”

The pallor in Nevada’s face deepened. She shiveredas if a sudden chill had struck her skin.

“Well,” said Rawley, after a further five minutesof staring at the river. “I’ll be getting back. TellPeter I’ll be down again. Or if he can take the time,have him come up, will you?”

“Why don’t you call him father?” Nevada askedhim. “You aren’t ashamed of him, are you?”

Rawley looked at her, the truth on the tip of histongue. But he closed his lips a bit more firmly,smiled down at her and shook his head.

“Peter and I understand each other,” he told herenigmatically and went away.

He quite agreed with Nevada. Even in times ofpeace, life could almost be called devastating.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE TRUTH ABOUT RICHES

“To-morrow,” said Johnny Buffalo, with a transparentair of triumph, “we will go to the cleft in therocks, by the path which no man knoweth, and youshall go down into the deep pit and find the gold.”

“What’s that?” Rawley looked up from crowdingtobacco into his pipe after a most satisfying supper.“You found it, did you?”

“My sergeant led me to the place,” Johnny Buffalostated gravely. “There was a mistake. The greatand high mountain which holds the gold was not thatgreatest mountain which we can see. There werecedar trees scattered over the face of the mountainwhen my sergeant found the gold. That was manyyears ago. Now there are no cedar trees or trees ofany kind. That is why we could not find the place.One year ago, my sergeant came and led me to thespot.”

“Is the gold there?” Rawley leaned forward,studying the old Indian through half-shut eyes.

“I did not go down into the pit. My sergeantwould not permit me to go. He says that you will go,and that you will there learn the truth about riches.He told me that I must not go down and look, for itwould not be good that I should see what will be revealedto you.” Johnny Buffalo spoke as if he werereciting a lesson. His face was turned toward theempty wheel chair, drawn before the open window.

Rawley frowned over the lighting of his pipe. Themystical message made little impression on his mind,but he did worry over the Indian’s implicit belief in it.His promise to Nevada bound him to silence on thesubject of hallucinations, however, even though hehad in mind several things which he would like to say.

Johnny Buffalo, sitting straight-backed with hishands spread palm down on his knees, related all theincidents of his life during the past two years. Queohad been accused of other murders, and after a particularlyheinous one at the Techatticup mine had disappearedaltogether. Once Johnny Buffalo had seenhim and had taken a shot at him, but again the gunhad kicked,—or perhaps his aim was not too good.He had missed. Once his cabin had been robbed offood, and he suspected the outlaw of committing thedepredation. Of the tribe of Cramer he would saylittle. Not once in the two years had he been in theircamp, he said. Peter and Nevada came often to seehim. They were good to him. His sergeant hadcome, and he had seen him. His sergeant sometimesspoke to him. Perhaps Rawley would see him.

Rawley did not think so, but he refrained fromvoicing his doubt. As tactfully as possible he avoidedthe subject and told some of his own adventures, towhich Johnny Buffalo listened with polite attention.It was plain to Rawley that his mind was given up toanother matter, and that he was merely waiting withhis Indian patience until he could guide his adoptedson to the secret cleft on the side of the mountain.

“No man has been before us,” he declared emphatically,when Rawley questioned him. “Bushes havegrown in the cleft until I could not have found it orsuspected that a cleft was there if my sergeant had notshown me the spot. The cleft is there. I have seenit. The bushes are very old, and there is much deadwood. There is the great heap of stones, and therehas been a dead tree. But it is gone many years andonly the root is left to show that it once stood joinedto the great heap of stones. When the sun comes Iwill show you.”

He was punctiliously true to his promise, for the sunwas not ten minutes above the peak across the riverwhen Rawley stood beside the “Great heap of stones...joined to a dry tree”, or what even he could seehad once been a dry tree. It had been an unmercifultrail, and he could easily believe that it was a pathwhich the eye of man had not seen. Indeed, it was nota path at all, but a line of least obstruction through anupheaval of what Rawley’s trained eyes recognized asiron-stained quartz and porphyry.

The place was almost inaccessible, and from a shortdistance it resembled a blow-out of granite so muchthat no prospector would trouble to investigate. Besides,Johnny Buffalo explained that this had been apopular habitat of snakes, and that he had spent agreat deal of his time, since the location of the spot,in hunting rattlesnakes. He proudly added that hehad earned many dollars in extracting the oil and inselling the skins. He feared that he had not gatheredthem all, however, and he warned Rawley against settinghis foot carelessly amongst the rocks.

Johnny Buffalo then gathered dry leaves and starteda fire in the brush. So much dead wood underlay thegrowth that the crevice was presently a furnace.

“If any snakes are there, they will come out,” heobserved grimly. “Also, light will go down, so thatyou will not stumble in darkness. I know what mysergeant meant in the message: ‘Take heed, now...that is exceeding deep.’ You will need light.”

Rawley nodded. He was watching the flamescuriously.

“By Jove, Johnny, I believe you are right,” he exclaimed,pointing. “Do you see that? There is astrong draught from beneath. There’s an openingdown there, sure as anything. And I’ll admit to youright now that this is gold formation blown out here.The iron stain is a good mask for it. I can readilybelieve that it hasn’t been prospected.”

“My sergeant does not speak lies,” Johnny Buffaloretorted imperturbably. “I know that it is so.”Whereupon he gave chase to a rattlesnake that hadslipped out from between two tilted bowlders and wentsliding sinuously away. With a crude trident, longof handle and tough and light, he pinned the snake tothe ground and neatly sliced off its head with a lightax which he carried suspended from his belt.

“Here’s another,” Rawley told him, and JohnnyBuffalo, moving with surprising agility, caught thatone also.

“For a time I gathered the venom in a bottle,” heinformed Rawley in his serious tone. “But now Itake only the body. When you go down into the pitthere will be no snakes until you reach the bottom.Then you look out.”

Rawley was sufficiently impressed to borrow thetrident, which was barbed and could kill as easily asit could capture. So, when the fire had died and therocks had cooled a little, he went down into the pit.

A blowhole it was, such as is frequently found in acountry so torn by volcanic action. As he descendedhe read the signs at a glance,—signs which to a laymanwould have meant nothing whatever. Beneathall this, said the rocks to Rawley, there should be gold.His pulse quickened as he worked his way downward,seeking foothold precariously where he might. Thethought that Grandfather King, of all the millions ofmen in the world, was the only one who had ever daredthese depths, thrilled him with pride. Not even theIndians had known of it, he was sure. He wonderedhow his grandfather had managed the snakes, andthen it occurred to him that Grandfather King mighthave discovered this place late in some season afterthe snakes had been overcome by their winterlethargy.

He breathed freer when his feet crunched in coarsegravel and he knew that he had reached the bottom.He had encountered no snakes, which he consideredgood luck, especially since he had needed hands andfeet and all his great strength to negotiate the descent,and had been compelled to abandon the trident beforehe had gone fifty feet. As nearly as he could estimate,the blowhole was well over two hundred feet in depth,and there were places where he had no more than comfortableroom for his body. The flashlight hung ona thong around his neck showed him how terrific hadbeen the explosion that had torn this crevice open tothe surface.

Rawley stood in a cavern probably ten feet highand extending farther than his light could penetratein two directions, which his pocket compass showedhim as east and west. So far the code was correct.The width he estimated as being approximately thirtyfeet, although the walls drew in or receded sharply,as the formation turned hard or soft. He facedtoward the east and went forward, pacing three feetat a stride, his flashlight throwing a white brilliancebefore him.

Seventy-two strides down the high, tunnel-likecavern brought him to the “River of pure water.”There he stopped and stood, turning his light here andthere upon the walls, the water, the gravel. His heart,that had been beating exultantly as his hopes rosehigher, slumped and became a leaden weight.

Gold had been there. Of that he had no doubtwhatever. But the placer had been mined,—guttedand abandoned. He apprehended at once the truth;that here was an underground stream, one of thesunken rivers for which the desert country is famous—that,or a small branch of a sunken river. Theremust be some other point of ingress, one of whichGrandfather King had no knowledge. Some one hadcome in by the other route and had taken the gold.The work had been done systematically, by miners whoknew what they were about. A glance at the workingstold him that.

Rawley turned his light down the stream. As faras its rays could pierce the dark of the cavern, theplacer workings extended. He went on, followingthe windings of the stream and its natural tunnel.Now that he had discovered his grandfather’s potentialriches, the legacy which he had confidently believedwas a fortune, Rawley was determined to see justwhere the watercourse would lead him.

He thought that he must have followed it for amile or more, although it could have been farther.All the way along, the gravel had been worked and thegold taken out. A suspicion had been growing in hismind, and quite suddenly it crystallized into certainty.He walked into a larger cavern, the full extent of whichhe could not see from that point. There he stoppedand considered.

Near at hand, all around him, black cans were piled.He did not need the second glance to tell him what itwas he had run into. Here was the secret hoard ofblack powder which the Cramers had been gatheringtogether for years. Here was the powder that would,in the space of a breath, tear down two mountain sidesand halt the flow of a great river,—if what they hopedand dreamed should come to pass.

The Cramers, then, had taken the gold which GrandfatherKing had discovered. Here was a part of it,no doubt, transformed into tons of explosive. Rawley’sgrin was sardonic as he surveyed the piled cans.It would be a bitter ending for their quest that he mustshow to Johnny Buffalo, he thought.

He walked on slowly and halted suddenly when alight showed ahead. Some one was coming towardhim, and Rawley instinctively snapped off his lightand moved to one side. War habits were still strongupon him, and in any case he would not trust theCramers.

Presently he saw that it was Peter, and called to himand went forward. Peter was astonished, but he wasalso glad to see Rawley.

“I meant to walk over to your place this evening,”he explained. “We’re so busy, right now—”

“With the dam?” Rawley sat down on a keg ofpowder, started to roll a cigarette and remembered thatit might not be wise.

“Yes. We’re loading her as fast as we can. It’sa big job, and the old man is getting fractious overthe delay.” Peter sat down on another keg and tookoff his hat, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “It’sgoing to be a blistering day outside. Seems like anice-box in here. How did you come?”

Then Rawley told him.

Peter listened in complete silence, his arms foldedon his knees. When Rawley had finished, Peterstraightened up with a sigh.

“I never dreamed we had cut into your ground,”he said heavily. “I thought, as you probably did,that the code described an old, underground watercoursesome miles from here. But you must be right,this is it. Old Jess discovered gold near the river, ata point where this stream back here dives under thecliffs and empties, most likely, into the river somewhereunder the water line. It was rich; a heap richerthan any one ever dreamed, I guess. And the factthat the stream flowed right into the Colorado mayhave given him his first idea of gathering the gold thathad washed on into the river. If you come with me,I’ll show you.”

“I can’t be too long,” said Rawley. “JohnnyBuffalo’s up on top, waiting for me to come back withmy pockets full of gold. It’s going to be hard on theold man, especially since Grandfather’s gold went intothe clutches of Old Jess. I don’t know that I’d bettertell him. At the same time,” he mused aloud, “Ican’t tell him that there isn’t any gold; he is so firmlyconvinced that his sergeant told the truth. He’d haveto know that some one else has beat us to it.”

Peter turned and looked at him thoughtfully. “I’llgive you some nuggets to take up to him,” he said.“Old Johnny’s pretty keen, and he holds a bad grudgeagainst Young Jess and the old man. If I could, youknow I’d replace the gold we got from under thatblowhole. But I can’t. It has all been spent, practically.Gone into the dam, along with the rest.”

Rawley laid his hand on Peter’s shoulder and left itthere.

“You wouldn’t do anything of the kind,” helaughed. “That darned dam idea of yours is catching.I’ve got it, and got it bad. If that gold you beatme to will tip enough rock into the river to make agood job of the dam, I’m satisfied. All I ask is thatyou let me know when you’re ready so I can see hergo. Are you doing as I advised,—preparing to shoother with electricity?”

Peter nodded. “Old Jess kicked on the cost, butwe showed him how it was the only safe way. She’sall loaded, across the river. We did that during lowwater and carried the wiring across up to a high, overheadcable that crosses the river all ready to be hookedup to the battery. I talked with a mining man aboutexplosives and found out some things that came inpretty handy, I guess. I got a hint not to break theground with dynamite enough so that the power ofthe black powder would be killed in the seams openedup. We didn’t use so much dynamite, after all.We’re depending on the black powder.”

“I still warn you against it,” said Rawley. “Butif you can’t be stopped, I do want to see the fireworks.There’s a pretty engineering problem there, and it willbe worth a good deal to see how it works out.” Histhoughts returned again to the old Indian waiting upon the hill. “I’ll buy some gold from you, UnclePeter, if you have it handy. I’ll tell old Johnny it’sall I could find; I think I can satisfy the old fellowwith the thought that his sergeant had it straight.”

Peter left him for five minutes and returned, carryinga small canvas sack.

“Here’s a handful of specimens I tucked into a nichein the rocks, intending to give them to Nevada for anecklace or something,” he told Rawley. “But Nevadacan have diamond necklaces when the dam goesin. You take these, boy. Maybe some of them sortof belong to you, anyway.”

“Lord, I don’t want them,” Rawley protested.“I’ll give them to Johnny Buffalo, though. It willkeep him from worrying about it. More than all that,it will keep him off the warpath, the old catamount.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
GREATER THAN GOLD

Johnny Buffalo held a handful of nuggets in hishard, brown palms. His eyes shone whenever helooked toward the old wheel chair beside the window.He listened to Rawley’s explanation of why therewould be no more gold, but the technical phraseologywent completely over his head, and he smiled abstractedlyand held up first one bit of gold and then anotherto the light. They were very heavy. They werebeautiful. They had lain, hidden away all these years,just where his sergeant had said that they werehidden.

“‘There is a path which no man knoweth,’” hemuttered, when Rawley had finished and was waitingto see what effect his harangue about erosions andchanged currents had taken on the Indian mind. “Itis so. My sergeant said it, and it was the truth. Mysergeant never lied. Always the words he spoke weretrue. I know it without proof. Now you have theproof, and you know it also.”

“There won’t be any more, you understand,” Rawleyrepeated with finality. “My work is to examinethese matters and report the truth about them. Afterexamining what lies at the bottom of the pit, I am reportingto you that there will be no more gold—”

Johnny Buffalo stopped him with a hand lifted, palmout. “What was revealed to you in the pit is notgood for me to know,” he stated firmly. “My sergeanthas said that you should know the truth aboutriches. He said that it would not be good that Ishould know the truth as you would know it.”

“That’s true, too,” Rawley admitted, taken aback.

“The gold was there when my sergeant said that itwas there. That is good. My sergeant did not saythat there would always be gold where gold has been.I think that is the truth about riches which you havelearned.”

“You’re right, Johnny.” Rawley grinned at himruefully. “If we’ve had any dream of being millionaires,we may as well forget it. Grandfather gave usthe straight dope, and you found the cleft in the rocks.It isn’t Grandfather’s fault that the millions havemoved on. So that’s all of that, and the next thing issomething else.”

“The next thing is what is given us to do,” saidJohnny Buffalo solemnly. “We will do our duty,whatever that may be. Now I have no more searchingfor my sergeant’s gold. I shall live here until itis time to go. I do not think it will be long.”

Rawley looked at him anxiously, but he could notbring himself to speak what was in his mind. JohnnyBuffalo would not understand that to the young deathis a dreadful thing, to be shunned and never thoughtof voluntarily,—an ogre that may snatch one awayfrom the joys of living. After all, he thought, JohnnyBuffalo had outlived his love of life. No one neededhim. He had only to wait. Rawley wished that hecould be with him longer and oftener, but that was notpossible unless he were willing to sacrifice the workhe loved. Even if he could bring himself to that,Johnny Buffalo would not permit it. It would breakhis heart to feel that he had hindered his sergeant’sgrandson.

“Your work,” said Johnny Buffalo, almost as if hehad been reading Rawley’s thoughts, “is better thanthe gold. A man is great within himself, or he isnothing. The full pocket makes the empty head. Itis greater fortune that you have honor and youthand work to perform. So my sergeant would tellyou.”

“You’re right, Johnny,” Rawley assented again.“If we’d found a ton of gold I think I’d have gone onwith my work just the same. A man my age can’tstop working for the sake of seeing how fast he canspend money. I couldn’t, anyway.”

“Then you do not need the gold. You can earnwhat you need and have the pleasure twice: in thegetting and in the spending. So you have not lost.”

“We’re a great pair of philosophers,” Rawleylaughed, “or else we are eating sour grapes. Blamedif I know, sometimes, just where the difference lies.Or perhaps there isn’t any, and crying sour grapes istrue philosophy, after all.”

Peter and Nevada, coming up the path, diverted thetalk to lighter channels. Nevada, spying the gold, exclaimedover the odd pieces and took them in hercupped palm to admire each specimen by itself.

“They are yours, save this one which I shall keep,”said Johnny Buffalo unexpectedly. “Rawley will nottake them. I do not need gold. I have three friendsand the spirit of my sergeant, who waits for me. Iam rich. They are yours. Put them on a chain andhang them around your neck while yet it is white andround.”

Nevada looked at him a full fifteen seconds beforeshe moved. Then she rose and kissed Johnny Buffaloon the withered cheek nearest her.

“To know a man like you is a privilege,” she saidsimply. “I shall keep the nuggets to remind me thatnot all men worship gold.”

“You will wear them in a necklace. My sergeantwishes you to have them. They are not so beautifulas your white throat.”

Nevada blushed vividly and shook the nuggets inher two hands. “It’s a good thing Grandmothercan’t hear you,” she laughed. “An old bachelor likeyou!”

“An old bachelor can say what the young man daresonly to think,” Johnny Buffalo stated calmly.

Rawley was trying distractedly to read a letter whichNevada had brought down from the post-office, and topretend that he did not hear what was going on. Butit is reasonable to assume that there was nothingin the letter to make him blush at the momentwhen Johnny Buffalo said his little say. Nevadastole a glance at him from under her lashes andsmiled.

“What is it, Cousin Rawley?” she asked wickedly.“You seem disturbed.”

“I’m called back on the job.” Rawley tried to meether eyes unconcernedly. “I won’t even have the weekI promised myself. This is pretty urgent, and so Ithink I’ll take the trail again in the morning.”

Even Nevada betrayed some mental disturbance overthat information, especially when Rawley could nothazard any opinion concerning his next visit.

“I won’t even have time to look over your work atthe dam,” he told Peter. “I intended going downto-morrow. I wanted to have a talk with you aboutthat. I’ve picked up a little information, here andthere, and I’m afraid there will be complications. ButI’ve been holding off until I was sure of my ground.I know, of course, that my personal opinion won’thave much weight.”

Peter shook his head. “You can work and pryand lift till your eyes pop out of your head, startinga bowlder down a mountain,” he said grimly, “andyou can give it the last heave and over she goes. Anytime, up to that last heave, you can quit and she staysright there where she was planted. But once shestarts, all hell can’t stop her. I’m afraid we’ve giventhe last heave, son.”

“Look out below!” Nevada cried mockingly andlooked at Rawley. “I could tell a cousin in threewords how he can make himself as popular as a rattlesnakewith the Cramers,—and the last of theMacalisters.”

“And those three words?” Rawley looked hersquarely in the eyes.

“Fight the dam.” Nevada’s eyes were as steady ashis own.

“Thunder!” Rawley sat back and reached for histobacco sack. “I’ve no notion of fighting the dam.It’s the biggest proposition I ever saw three lone men—anda girl; excuse me, Nevada!—tackle in my life.Four of you, thinking to stop, just like that,”—hemade a slicing, downward gesture, “—the secondlargest river in the United States! You’ll be dammingthe Gulf Stream next, I suppose. Divert it soas to warm up Maine and make it a winter-bathingresort!”

“Do you dare us to try?” Nevada poured nuggetsfrom one palm to the other. “That might be a goodinvestment, when we’ve made our clean-up in the riverbed.” She smiled dreamily at her handful of gold.“That’s a wonderful idea. We need some wonderfulidea to work on, after the dam is in and the gold is out.You can’t,” she looked up wistfully at Rawley, “youcan’t live with a tremendous idea all your life and suddenlydrop back to three meals a day and which dressshall you wear. One would go mad. It—it’s liketaking the mainspring out of life.”

Johnny Buffalo nodded his head in significant approval.“A man can only wait, then, until it is timeto go,” he said with quiet decision.

“Very well. I’ll speak to the Peace Conferenceabout the Gulf Stream,” Rawley assured her gravely.“In case I am unable to reserve it for you—wouldthe Gulf of Mexico do, or the Mississippi River,perhaps?”

“We’re accustomed to cracking our whip over freshwater,” Nevada retorted. “I should prefer to havethe Mississippi, please.”

Johnny Buffalo glanced toward the wheel chair,gazed at it intently and nodded his head.

“You will succeed and fail in the succeeding,” heintoned solemnly. “In the failure you will rise togreater things. It is so. My sergeant never speakswhat is not true.”

Eyes moved guardedly to meet other eyes thatunderstood, conveying a warning that the old manmust be humored. Johnny Buffalo stood up, hisface turned toward the wheel chair. He seemedto be listening. His eyes brightened. The wrinklesin his bronzed old face deepened and radiatedjoy.

“It is good! I need not wait—I go now!” Hetook an eager step and wavered there.

Peter and Rawley, rising together, caught the oldman in their arms as he went down, falling slowly likea straight, old tree whose roots have snapped with age.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE EAGLE LOOKS UPON A GREAT RIVER

Rawley drove down El Dorado Canyon, now silentin mid-afternoon, with not a sound of stamp mill orcompressor or the mingled voices of men at work.Techatticup stood forlorn, deserted save by one oldman who bore himself proudly because he was theguardian there. The war, the labor question, theslump in metals, had done their work. It seemed toRawley as if the nation were taking a long breath,making ready to go forward again more resistlesslythan before. He missed Johnny Buffalo terribly; butif he could, he would not have called him back.Johnny would have had a dreary time of it, alone allthese long months when Rawley’s work had held closeto the affairs of the government.

The eye of the Eagle had not been closed. Hiskeen glance had gone to this and to that, his piercinggaze had fixed itself upon the desert land and the riverthat went hurrying down through flaming gorge andpainted canyon, a law unto itself, an untaught, untamedgiant of the wild; a scenic wonder set deep insavage walls of rock, where people came and lookeddown upon it, drew back shivering, ventured to lookagain in silent awe; a terrible, devastating thing fromwhich men fled in terror when the giant river rose,leaped from its bed and went raging across the land.

Men called for power, for protection, for water totill barren acres that might be made fertile. Menshouted for the things which the Colorado held arrogantlywithin its grasp, to hoard with miserly greedor to let loose in a ferocious fury. The Colorado hadpower, it had water, it had a cruel habit of devouringlands and homes and whooping onward toward thegulf, heedless of the destruction in its wake.

And the Eagle had lifted his head and turned hiseyes upon the great river. Here, within the bordersof his domain, dwelt a powerful, savage thing thatmust be tamed and taught to obey the will of men.The Eagle considered this headlong defiance of allcivilized restraint. The Eagle saw how men lookedupon the river, drew back in awe and ventured to lookagain; men, who should be the masters of the river.The Eagle lifted and spread his wings. And the tipof a wing reached over the desert land and laid itsshadow across the Colorado.

A great orator had painted it so, and Rawley wasthinking of that picture of the Eagle as he drove downthe canyon to the very brink of the river and climbedout of his car. Still desolate, more forsaken thanever was the place where El Dorado had stood alive,alert, self-sufficient. The camp was gone, almost forgotten.The river flowed past, disdainful of the punyefforts of men who died and forgot their dreams andtheir endeavors, while it rushed on through the ages,and played with the lives of men and mocked at theirfear of it.

But three men and a girl had dared to dream ofholding the might of it in leash. It was to see thesedreamers, to warn and to show them the shadow ofthe Eagle’s wing, that he had come in haste to the bankof the Colorado. For months he had heard nothing.Nevada had not written, or if she had the letter hadnot reached him. There was danger in delay, in theircontinued silence.

Rawley slung a canteen over his shoulder andstarted up the river, taking the well-known trail. Thiswas the quickest way to reach the Cramers, and nowthat he was in their neighborhood once more a greatimpatience was upon him, a nervous dread that hemight be an hour, a minute too late for what he hadcome to do.

He came upon Nevada suddenly. She was standingon the site of the old camp where he had stayedwith Johnny Buffalo. Her back was toward him, andshe was holding something in her two hands; somethinghe had seen her extract from the thorny branchesof a stunted mesquite bush. When his footstepssounded close, she turned and looked at him dumbly,her eyes wide and dark. The thing she held in herhands was his pipe,—one that he had lost on that firsttrip into the country.

Before his better judgment or his doubts could stophim, Rawley drew her into his arms and held her closewhile he kissed her. It was so good to see her again,to feel her nearness. But after one rapturous minute,she put away his arms and faced him calmly,though her breath was not quite even and her eyeswould not meet his with the old frankness.

“Your one eighth of Indian blood should have givenyou more reserve, Cousin Rawley,” she reproved himmockingly. “The Spanish of us must be watched.Well, I needn’t ask about your health; you haven’tbeen pining during your absence, that one couldnotice.”

Rawley barely escaped forswearing both his Indianand his Spanish blood, but remembered his promisejust in time. He did not believe that Nevada regrettedhis impulsiveness,—for you simply can’t fool a manunder thirty when he kisses a girl. Nevada’s lips, hejoyously remembered, had not been unresponsive.

“Here’s your pipe,” she said lamely, when he onlystood and looked at her. “I was just wonderingwhether it’s worth saving, or whether I’d better heaveit into the river and see how far it would float.”

Rawley did not believe that she intended to heave itanywhere, but he passed the point.

“If cousins fell in love, they—would you considerthe relationship any bar—”

Nevada went white around the mouth.

“I certainly should! You ought to be ashamed toask a question like that. No man with any decencycould think of such a thing.”

“I’m decent,” Rawley contended, “and I thoughtof it.” But he did not pursue the subject further.Nevada had turned and was walking on toward thecamp of Cramer, and Rawley could do nothing butfollow. The path was too narrow to permit him towalk beside her, and a man feels a fool making love toa woman’s back.

“Have you done anything further about the dam?”he asked, after a silence.

“I believe the work is going ahead,” Nevada replied,keeping straight on.

“You must have received my letter about it; ordidn’t you?”

“Yes, I received a letter about something of thesort.”

“You didn’t answer it, did you? I never receivedany reply.”

“I did not think,” said Nevada, “that the letter requiredany answer. You wrote and told us to stopall work on the dam, and give up the idea, becausesome one else wanted to build a dam. Or was consideringthe building of a dam. I read that letter toGrandfather and Uncle Jess and Uncle Peter, as yourequested. They swore rather fluently and went towork the next morning as usual.” Then, as if it hadjust occurred to her, “Did you come to see about that,Cousin Rawley?”

“Oh, I wish you’d omit the ‘cousin’,” Rawleyblurted irrelevantly. “I don’t like having it rubbedin.”

Nevada said nothing for a time. Then she laughed,a hard little laugh that sounded strange, coming fromher.

“Certainly, if you wish. I’m very sorry I seem tohave ‘rubbed it in’, as you put it. And I quite understandhow you feel. Out among men—and women—asyou have been, all your life, the—er—mixedrelationship would prove rather a handicap. Poor oldGrandfather and Grandmother should have thought oftheir children’s children, before they fell in love. AndUncle Peter should either have brought you here andraised you with the rest of the tribe, or never told youthe truth. I’m not blaming him; I’m merely sorry forthe mistake. I know what it means. I’ve been outin the world, too.”

Rawley stared at the proud lift of her head andwondered just how much of that she meant. Shemust be quite aware of his reason for disliking to becalled her cousin, but he would not argue with her.Except about the handicap.

“You’re mistaken, if you think the mixed blood isan objectionable feature,” he said firmly. “Indianand Spanish have the same essential characteristics ofrace that the straight white blood owns. Besides,there are mighty few Americans who couldn’t traceback to something of the sort. Character, culture andenvironment sweep a few drops of red blood into thebackground, Nevada. You wouldn’t feel bitter overit, if you didn’t live right here and see the Indian predominatein Young Jess and Gladys—and yourgrandmother.”

“Your grandmother, as well as mine,” she flashedover her shoulder with a very human spitefulness.“Don’t deny it—to me.”

Rawley did not deny anything at all; wherefore,conversation languished between the two. Since firsthe had known her, Nevada had frequently withdrawninto an unapproachable aloofness discouraging to anylasting intimacy, but she had never before betrayedresentment against her blood.

He had hoped that she would be glad to see himand would let him see that she was glad. He had hopedto win her complete confidence in his devotion to theirinterests and welfare. He needed to have bothNevada and Peter on his side, if he were going to besuccessful in his mission to the Cramers. But he wasextremely doubtful now of ever winning Nevada’sconfidence. It began to look as though he may aswell count her an opponent and be done with doubt.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ANITA

Life seemed to have moved sluggishly in the basin,save in the increase of the tribe. Six young Cramersnow walked upright, though the smallest walked insecurelyand frequently fell down and lay squallingwith its eyes shut and its nose wrinkled until one ofthe older children picked it up and dusted it off, remonstratingthe while in Pahute. The seventh wasnot yet old enough to ride the well-upholstered hip ofGladys, but wailed in a cradle which some one mustbe incessantly rocking.

Gladys was more slatternly than ever she had been,and her vacuous grin had lost a tooth. Anita hadaged terribly, Rawley thought. She moved slowly,with a long stick for a staff, and her eyes held a dumbmisery he could not face. Nevada informed him thatGrandmother had not been very well, lately, althoughthere was nothing wrong, particularly.

“She doesn’t sleep at all, it seems to me,” Nevadadetailed. “Often she’s up and prowling along theriver bank in the middle of the night, and I have togo and lead her back. I think she’s getting childish.She will sit and watch me by the hour, when I’m working,but she doesn’t seem to want me to talk to her.She just sits and looks, the way she’s been looking atyou.”

Nevada went away then to some work which shesaid was important, and Rawley wandered down to theriver bank. In a few minutes he heard a sound behindhim and turned, hoping that Nevada had yieldedto his unspoken desire and was coming to join him.

But it was Anita, walking slowly down the unevenpathway, planting her crude staff ahead of her in thetrail and pulling herself to it with a weary, laboriousmovement. Her gray bangs hung straight down toher eyelids. Her wrinkled old face was impassive,her eyes dumb. Rawley bit his lip suddenly, thinkingof his Grandfather King sitting, “a hunk of meat inthe wheel chair.” Life, it seemed to him, had dealtvery harshly with these two. He was no longerswayed by the stern prejudice of Johnny Buffalo. Hedid not believe that Anita, in her lovely youth, hadbeen merely a whimsy of love. His grandfather hadloved her, had meant to return to her. He did notbelieve that King, of the Mounted, would have lovedone who loved many. The King pride would not havepermitted that.

Anita came up to him and leaned hard upon herstick, her eyes turned dully upon the river. Neverbefore had she sought him out; rather had she avoidedhim, staring at him with a look he interpreted as resentment. She looked so old, so infinitely tired withlife, and her eyes went to the river as if it alone couldknow the things she had buried in her heart, long agowhen she was a slim young thing, all fire and life.

With a sudden impulse of tenderness he put his armaround her, leading her to the flat rock and seatingher there as gallantly as if she were Nevada, whomhe loved. It was what his grandfather would havedone. Rawley felt suddenly convicted of a fault, almostof a sin; the sin of omission. Here was the loveof his grandfather’s youth, the mother of his grandfather’sfirst-born. And because she was old and fat,because the primitive blood had triumphed and shehad yielded to environment and slipped back into Indianways, he had snobbishly held himself aloof. Hehad ignored her claim upon his kindness. Had herbeauty remained with her, he told himself harshly, hisattitude had been altogether different. Now hewanted to make up to her, somehow, for his selfishoversight. He sat down beside her and patted herhand,—for the Anita who had been beautiful, theAnita whom King, of the Mounted, had loved.

“You love—my girl—Nevada?” The old squawspoke abruptly, though her voice held to a dead levelof impassivity.

“How did you know?” Rawley took away hishand.

“I know. I have seen love—in eyes—blue.Eyes like your eyes.”

“Nevada doesn’t care anything about me, Anita.”

At the word, the old squaw turned her head andstared at him fixedly. “You call that name. Whereyou know that name? Jess, he call me Annie.”

Rawley flushed, but there was no help for it now—or,yes, there was Johnny—

“Johnny Buffalo called you Anita,” he parried.

Anita shook her head slowly. “Jawge—yourgran’fadder—he call me Anita too,” she said wistfully.“You ver’ much—like Jawge. I firs’ think—youare ghos’ of Jawge, when you come.”

“Grandfather was crazy about you,” slipped offRawley’s tongue. “He spoke of you in his diary—abook where he wrote down things he did—thingshe thought.”

Anita stared down at the river.

“You tell me,” she commanded tersely. “Allthose things—Jawge think—about—Anita.”

Rawley’s hand went out and closed again over herwrinkled, work-hardened knuckles.

“The first was when he came up to El Dorado onthe Esmeralda in ’66. He was leaning over the rail,watching the miners crowd down to the landing. Hewrote, ‘I saw a young girl—I think she is Spanish.She has the velvet eyes and the rose blooming in hercheeks. She’s beautiful. Not more than sixteen andgraceful as a fairy.’ What more he wrote of you Idon’t know. He cut the pages from the book so noone could read it.”

Anita raised a knotted, brown hand and smoothedher bangs, tucking them neatly under her red kerchief.

“I was little,” she said complacently. “Ver’ beautiful.Every-body was—crazy—about—me.” Shehalted, choosing the best English words she knew. “Iwas—good girl. I love—nobody. I jus’ laugh alltime—when them so’jers make the love. Then I see—Jawge—mySah-geant King. He is king to me.Tall—big—strong—all time laughing—makinglove with blue eyes—like you—all time make love—witheyes—to Nevada. I know them eyes—I havelived—to look—in them eyes.”

“I don’t do anything of the kind,” Rawley protested,confusion crimsoning his face. “I’ve alwaystried—”

“Eyes like them eyes—no tell lies. Woman eyessee—things they tell. Jawge—he write more?”

“Most of it was cut from the book. He calledyou ‘el gusto de mi corazon,’ and his ‘dulce corazon.’Do you know—?”

Beneath his palm Anita’s hand was trembling. Shepulled it free and lifted it to her face, her witheredfingers wiping the tears that were slipping down herwrinkled cheeks. Rawley could have bitten his tonguein two. Awkwardly he patted her on one huge,rounded shoulder.

Like a lonesome dog, the old woman whimperedbehind her brown palm, from beneath which a tearsometimes escaped and splashed upon her calico wrapper. Rawley sat silent, abashed before this forlorngrief over a romance fifty years dead.

“Now I love Nevada, Peter.” She mastered hertears and became again impassive. “You leave me—Nevada?Lil time—I want Nevada. I die—thenyou can love—many years. You do that?”

“Of course. I promised Peter, a long time ago.But it doesn’t matter, anyway. Nevada doesn’t carea rap about me.”

The old woman looked at him stolidly.

“You not tell Nevada—you not Peter’s boy,” shesaid. “Nevada think that. You not tell Nevada—that’sa lie. You tell Nevada, I kill myself.”

“I’ve no intention of telling Nevada,” Rawley said,chilled by her manner. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“You not come—for Nevada? You not think,marry Nevada—take Nevada ’way off, I no see anymore?” Anita peered into his face.

“No. I came to see Peter. About the dam.”

Anita took some time over this statement. Thenshe rose stiffly and hobbled away, leaving Rawley tostare morosely into the river.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE EAGLE AND THE VULTURE

“You may as well listen to me,” said Rawley in theincisive tone which big responsibilities had taught him.“I am your friend. My only object in coming hereis to be of service to you. If you do not listen to whatI have to say, you will have to listen to the FederalReclamation Service, acting under the Secretary ofthe Interior. That may be more convincing to you—butbelieve me, it will be less pleasant!”

“You were keen for the dam, last time you werehere,” Peter reminded him drily. “You called it abig idea. You’ve had a change of heart, son.”

“I have. I have come to tell you that there are otherideas bigger than yours, and a power behind them thatwill make yours look like building a toy dam in thesand, like kids. You must have read of it in thepapers. There’s been all kinds of publicity given tothe project.”

“You’re right. There’s been a heap of talk,” Peterretorted. “The papers have done the talking, andwe’ve been sawing wood and keeping our mouths shut.While they’re still talking and arguing and speechifying, we’ll put ’er in. There’s nothing the matter withthat, is there? Take the wind out of their sails, maybe,especially the fellows that have their speeches allwritten out, ready for the next banquet. But,—thedam will be in! They’ll have some work, trying toget around that point.

“You ask if we’ve read the papers. I have.They’ve been talking about spending a hundred milliondollars. We’ve spent one. They’ve been fiddlingalong the river, looking to see if it’s feasible. We’vekept right on digging. They thought we were mining—theonly party that discovered our diggings. Theywere very patronizing, very polite, and they talkedabout the wonderful things a dam would do for us. Isthat what you came to tell us, son?”

Rawley leaned back against the wall and laid onefoot across the other knee, tapping his boot with hisfinger tips. He was facing them all. He must convincethem, somehow, and he must batter down thedream of a lifetime to do it.

“No, you’ve read most of the talk,” he told Peter.“I admit the thing has almost been talked to death.It begins to look as though the general public is tiredof reading about damming the Colorado. If that wereall there is to it, Peter, I’d never say a word. Butthere are some facts we can’t get around with talk, ordefiance. I came here to show them to you—justplain, hard facts—and let you see for yourself whatthey mean.

“In the first place—and this is probably the hardestfact you have to face—the Colorado is an internationalstream. It flows through a part of Mexico.The Constitution of the United States has decreed thatsuch rivers must at all times and in every particularbe under the control of the Federal Government.There are seven States bordering this river, yet not oneof them dare build a dam without the consent andsupervision of the government. Get that firmlyplanted in your minds, folks.”

Young Jess turned his head an inch and slanted alook at Old Jess. Old Jess crossed his legs, folded hisarms and trotted one rusty boot, waggling his beardwhile he chewed tobacco complacently. No one couldfail to read his mind, just then. He was thinking thatwhat seven States were afraid to do, he, Jess Cramer,had dared. The joke was on the seven States, accordingto Old Jess’s viewpoint.

“Arizona,” Rawley went on, after a minute of contemplatingthe complete satisfaction of Old Jess,“Arizona wants water for irrigation. One hundredand fifty thousand acres of desert land can be madefertile with the water of the Colorado, properly divertedinto a system of canals.”

“They kin have the water,” the Vulture concededbenificently. “We don’t want it. Glad to git rid ofit. You kin tell ’em I said so.”

Young Jess laughed hoarsely.

“Sure. Glad to git it off’n our hands!”

“The State of Nevada wants power for her mines.The copper interests are after a dam up the river here,so that they can resume the output of copper. Theywant a smelter, operated by power from the Colorado.Two million brake horse-power of electric energy isslipping past your door, worse than wasted.

“California wants more power for her industries—”

“She’s welcome,” Old Jess stated smugly. “Weain’t hoggin’ no electric energy ’t I know of.”

“You are, if you interfere with the building of adam of sufficient size and strength to conserve thatpower.”

Young Jess leaned forward, grinning impudentlyinto Rawley’s face.

“Hell! There’s thousands uh miles up river thatwe ain’t doin’ a thing to. They kin build dams fromhere to Denver, fer all we care! That’s all poppyco*ck,our interferin’. Everybody with ten cents inhis pocket is talkin’ about buildin’ a dam in the Colorado.Why the hell don’t they go ahead and do it?We ain’t stoppin’ nobody!”

“You may be, without knowing it,” Rawley explainedpatiently, determined to educate them beyondtheir single-track idea, if possible. “I see how itlooks to you, of course. But I’ll explain how it looksto the greatest engineers in the country, Jess. Youremember I was rather keen for it, myself. It was outof my line, and I didn’t know.

“Now the fact is, you are attempting, with a certainamount of rock blown into the river from thesides, to dam a river second only to the Mississippi.

“I know, the Missouri is wider, but I am speakingnow of the volume of water that passes through thiscanyon right here. It is a swift river, and it is a deepriver. You don’t realize, any of you, just how deepand how swift it is, though you have lived beside itall your lives.

“Peter has spoken of the amount of money they aretalking of spending to build a dam at Boulder Canyon,up here. The canyon there is as narrow as this; perhapsnarrower. And to hold back the tremendousvolume of water that flows past your door, engineershave said that they must go down one hundred andfifty feet, to bed rock, and start there to build theirdam. They say that the dam will—must—to holdback the terrific pressure of water, rise something likesix hundred feet above low-water mark. It will keepseveral thousand men working for eight or ten yearsto complete the dam, its spillways and main canals. Itwill cost around one hundred million dollars, and itwill bring both protection and prosperity to thousandsand thousands of people. That,” he declared, leaningforward, “is what it means to dam the Colorado.”

“It don’t mean that to us,” Old Jess stated, turninghis quid to the other cheek. “We aim to show ’emsomething about buildin’ dams.” He grinned andshowed yellow snags of teeth.

“Yeah. Wait till they see how we aim to do it,”snickered Young Jess. “We’ll be rakin’ in the goldwhilst they’re still standin’ around with their mouthsopen.”

Peter had fallen into a taciturn, grim mood, staringsomber-eyed at the river. Beside him, Nevada leanedchin upon her cupped palm and stared also. Severalthousand men, working for eight years! That was aslong as the years back to her first sight of the conventwhere Peter took her to be educated. Thousands ofmen working all that time—thousands! Was it,then, so deceptively vast, that river? Would the cliffsthey had undermined fall in and be swept disdainfullyaway? Did it really belong to the government, thatriver, so that no man living all his life on its bankmight say what should be done with it? Had UnclePeter, and Young Jess and her grandfather been children,playing all these years beside a stream they mustnot touch or tamper with?

“It sounds as big as the stars,” she observedvaguely. “As if we had been waving a handkerchiefat Mars, down here by the river, and then some onecomes along and pushes us back and says, ‘Here, here,you must stand back. You are obstructing the view.The President wants to wave his handkerchief. Youannoy him.’ Do you think,” she flashed at Rawley,“it is going to make any difference to the river—whodams it first?”

“You don’t get the point,” Rawley protested. “Iam not responsible because the undertaking is so stupendousthat it is beyond any private enterprise. Youcan’t shoot a lot of rock into the river and call that adam. And if you could, you must not. Don’t yousee? The welfare of too many thousands of peopleare involved. It’s a job for the government. Youcan’t take it for granted that, just because you havelived beside it all your lives, and because it doesn’t seemto belong to anybody, any more than the clouds belong,that you can claim it, or even claim the right to do asyou please with it. There’s a right that goes away beyondthe individual—”

“The gold down there is ours,” Old Jess criedfiercely. “We own placer claims on both sides of theriver, and the lines run across. We’ve got a right toplacer the gold in the river bed. It’s ours. We got aright to git it any way we kin! The gov’ment can’tstop us, neither.”

“Oh, yes, it can!” Rawley rashly contradicted.“When you come down to fine points, the governmentowns this river. It owns the river bed and whatevergold is there. By ‘right of eminent domain’, if youever heard of that.”

“Right of eminent hell!” Young Jess got up andstood over Rawley threateningly. “Tell me a bunchuh swell-heads back in Wash’n’ton, that never seen thisriver, can set and tell us what we can do an’ what wecan’t do? We own claims both sides the river, andwe got a right to what’s in the river. You can’t comehere and tell us, this late day, ’t we got to quit, andlose our time an’ money, because the gov’ment or somebodywants to build a dam. Hell, we ain’t stoppin’nobody! They better nobody try an’ stop us, neither!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“TAKE THIS FIGHTING SQUAW AWAY!”

Never before had Rawley seen Young Jess in arage. A surly, ignorant fellow he knew him to be,and not too intelligent. A dangerous fellow, Rawleybelieved him; quite capable of killing any man whothwarted him or roused his fury. But Rawley did notmove or attempt to placate him. He had learned thatsome natures must blow up a great storm before theycan yield. He hoped that this was the case withYoung Jess.

The old vulture craned his neck forward, his eyespiercingly malevolent.

“Think I’ve waited fifty year fer that gold, t’ berobbed of it now? They ain’t no gov’ment on earthcan step in an’ take what’s mine! I’ll blow ’em to hellfirst! I’ll—”

As once before, when he thought his gold was threatened,Old Jess ran the full gamut of anathema. Nevadafled from the sound of his cracked voice shriekingmaniacal threats and maledictions. He shook his fistunder Rawley’s nose and stamped his feet and raved.Young Jess was over-ridden, silenced by the old man’sinsane outburst.

As once before, Peter said absolutely nothing untilOld Jess had reached the zenith of his rage. Then herose deliberately and without excitement, took the oldman by the collar and headed him toward the door.

“Go and cool off,” he advised dispassionately.“You old vulture, you can’t scream any louder thanthe Eagle. You, too, Jess,” he added, turning harshlyupon his half-brother. “You’re a pretty good manwhen it comes to swinging a single-jack, but you’rea damn poor hand at thinking! This thing is awaybeyond your depth. You can’t holler the governmentdown. Get out!”

Young Jess blustered and threatened still, flailinghis fists and mouthing oaths.

“That’s about all from you,” grated Rawley, stungto action by some vile threat against the government.

“Is, hey?” Young Jess advanced upon him.

Then Rawley went for him, the blue eyes of theKings gone black with fury. The fight, if it could becalled that, was short and undramatic. No tables wereoverturned, no glass was shattered. Young Jessaimed a sledge blow at Rawley, got one on the jawthat spun him so that he faced the other way, andRawley forthwith kicked him off the porch. YoungJess rooted gravel, looked over his shoulder and sawRawley coming at him again, and started off on allfours. When he regained his feet he went away,blathering blasphemy. He was going for his gun,—sohe said.

Peter stood looking after Young Jess, his browspulled together. A slim figure slipped past him andwent straight to Rawley, who was pulling at his tie,which had gone crooked. She was pale, breathlesswith the fear that looked out of her big eyes.

“Oh, you must go—now,” she breathed, claspingher two hands around his arm. “You think he’s justlike any other bully, all bluster. He’ll kill you, justas sure as you stand here. Grandfather, too. UncleJess will shoot you in the back—oh, anyway! He’sthe worst of the Indian blood; once you rouse him,there’s nothing he’ll stop at! Get him away, UnclePeter! It isn’t brave, to stay and be killed. It’s theworst kind of cowardice; the kind that is afraid toshow itself. Uncle Peter!”

“We’re going, Nevada. I know Young Jess. Arattlesnake’s a prince alongside him when he’s mad.Son, you should have left him to me. I can handlehim pretty well, no matter how mad he gets. Comealong; he’ll not be above potting you from ambush,Injun style.”

He left the porch at the farther end, pulling Rawleyafter him; and much as Rawley hated the thought ofretreat, he was forced to believe that Nevada andPeter, neither of them timid souls, must know whatthey were talking about.

Nevada disappeared, with no word of farewell toRawley. Young Jess could be plainly heard bawlingat Gladys because his “shells” had been misplaced.

Peter chuckled.

“One of the kids shot himself through the hat, amonth or so ago,” he explained his amusem*nt.“Since then the guns are kept unloaded. Jess is huntingcartridges; God bless Gladys for a poor housekeeper!”

He still held a firm grip on Rawley’s arm, leadinghim down the path to the river. But suddenly, keepingan ear co*cked toward the sounds behind him, heswung away from the trail toward the bluffs.

“He’s found them, from the way things havequieted down, back there. He’ll be hot on your trail,now—unless Nevada can stop him, which I doubt.He’s Injun enough to hold women in contempt whenit comes to a show-down. Here.”

He pulled Rawley down between two great, upstandingbowlders standing black against the stars. Rawleyfelt a movement of Peter’s arm, and knew that Peterhad pulled a gun from somewhere and was aiming itacross a ridge of rock. Rawley himself could hearnothing but the crying of the wakened baby in theshack, the yelp of a kicked dog.

For a long time, it seemed to Rawley, they waited.He could not hear a sound. But Peter still held hisgun leveled across the rock before them, and Rawleycould feel how Peter’s muscles were tensed for astruggle.

Two greenish lights showed faintly as a star-beamstruck the eyeballs of a dog. A shuffling sound approaching through the weedy gravel, a sniffling atPeter’s hand. Rawley felt a crimple down his spine,though he did not think that he was afraid.

A pebble plunked into something close beside him,and the dog shied off with a faint, staccato yelp.Young Jess, then, was close. A muttered cursereached the ears of the two between the bowlders. Immediatelyafterward, Nevada’s whisper came distinctly.

“I think he’s hidden here, somewhere in the rocks.His car is down in the canyon, but he wouldn’t go thatway—he’d expect you to follow. Watch the dog.He hasn’t any gun—I know. Can you creep backtoward the hill—”

“Sh-sh. You call him. Quiet, as if you wasscared. Make out you’re sweet on him—”

“I can’t. He knows—I hate him. We quarreledto-day. I hate his snobbish ways—I told him so.”

“Call his name if you run onto him. Then duck.I’ll—”

“Sh-sh—he may be near!”

The two were standing close together, just beyondthe bowlder that reared its bulk beyond Peter. Rawleybit his lip, straining his ears to hear more.

“You call him. He won’t s’spect—” YoungJess urged in a whisper.

“He’d be a fool if he didn’t. I tell you heknows—”

“He’s stuck on yuh. That makes a fool—”

“Sh-sh. He’s not—”

Inch by inch, Rawley was drawing himself backward,until now he was free of the bowlder andPeter. From the sounds, he knew that the two werestanding close to the rock. He thought that theywere facing the river, though he could not be sure.It did not greatly matter. He inched that way untilhe could faintly distinguish two upright blots in thedarkness of the bowlder’s shadow.

Upon the taller of the two he launched himself,reaching instinctively for the gun he knew was there.His hand closed on the cool steel of the barrel, and hegave a mighty wrench as he went down. Young Jess,caught unawares from behind, had no chance to savehimself. Rawley landed full on his back, his chestforcing the face of Young Jess into the gravel. Hisleft hand gripped the back of Jess’s neck.

“Peter, please take this fighting squaw to the houseand lock her up somewhere. Then come back here.I want to have a talk with you before I go,” he saidhardly. “I can handle this vermin, but I leave thesquaw to you.”

“As you like,” Peter’s voice was noncommittal.“Come, Nevada.”

Rawley had expected some outburst from her, somebitter reply to his taunt. But she went away withPeter and spoke no word to any one. So Rawleypulled off his necktie and tied Young Jess’s hands behindhim, and made himself a smoke while he waitedPeter’s return.

“I’ll git you, and I’ll git you right!” gritted YoungJess, when Rawley had his cigarette going. “Youbetter kill me now, or you’ll see the day you’ll be beggingme to kill yuh. I’ll ketch yuh and take yuh backin the mine, an’ I’ll—” He amused himself for someminutes, making up the programme of his revenge.He would finish, he decided, by building a bed of powderkegs and placing Rawley full length upon it, witha ten-foot fuse spitted just before Young Jess badehim good-by.

“You ought to have lived fifty years ago,” Rawleycommented indifferently, and blew smoke in his face.“Why don’t yuh squeal for that old buzzard of a dad?Maybe he could help yuh out, right now.”

Young Jess, having just made up his mind to shoutfor Old Jess to come, shut his mouth so hard his teethclicked like a dog cracking a bone.

“Any fool can plan the things he’d like to do,” Rawleytaunted. “What counts is the fact that you’re onyour back, right now, and that I put you there—andyou with a gun in your hands! I could kick you inthe slats and make you howl like a kicked pup. Icould drive your teeth in, so you’d feed yourself inthe back of your head the rest of your life! Don’ttalk to me—about what you’d like to do! I’m liableto experiment on yuh, just to see how it works.”

Then Peter returned, and further social amenitieswere postponed to some future meeting.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“YOU TELL HOOVER I SAID SO!”

Las Vegas awoke one morning to find itself in thepublic eye. Destiny had so decreed when it permittedLas Vegas to become the town nearest to the proposeddam site at Boulder Canyon,—the largest governmentalproject undertaken for many a day. ThePanama Canal, said the orators (and no doubt theyspoke the truth), had not cost so much as it would costto dam the Colorado River, to conserve its tremendouspower, to control its flood waters and put the river towork tamely watering long rows of cotton, potatoes,great fields of grain. Long enough had it gone leapingdown through the wildest, most gorgeous sceneryin the country. Now it must be harnessed to new industriesand become the servant of plowboys, thefriend of prospectors. It must pull trains across thedesert which it was to transform into tilled farms. Itmust keep several States vibrant with the hum ofmachinery. It must make of the town of Las Vegasa city worthy the name. One can’t blame Las Vegasfor being particularly interested in that phase of theproject.

The town lay fairly under the eye of the Eagle,—andof the sun, whose light the magic alchemy of thedesert transmuted into soft tints on the mountains,into a faint lavender glow on the desert. The air wasstill, with a little nip to it that would later soften to alazy warmth. A stranger to the desert, standing onthe depot platform, would have thought that he mightwalk quite easily to Charleston Mountains, standingbold and stark against the western sky line.

Down the flag-draped main street, coming from theside door of the little post-office, a huge, good-naturednegro leaned against a pushcart piled high with dingy,striped canvas mail sacks. When he passed, certainbelated citizens swung out to the edge of the pavementand took longer steps, knowing that the train was ontime, and that the crowd would already be edging outupon the platform. Automobiles with flags standingperkily from headlight braces went careening past, toswing up into the parking space, trying their nonchalantbest to look as if they were not going to hold governorsand high officials of the Federal Governmentand carry them safely down to Boulder Canyon, themost popular dam site on the Colorado.

A group of small boys dressed in white came marchingdown the street, stubbing toes over the unevenplaces because they must keep their eyes on the musicwhile they played the uncertain strains of a march.They were very sleek as to hair, very shiny as to cheeksand very solemn, those boys. Their mothers and theirfathers and their teachers were going to detect anyfalse note or flatted sharp and tell them about it afterwards.Besides, there aren’t many boys who ever geta chance to stand on the platform and play when theGovernor’s train comes in—and be the only band onthe job. They felt the deep responsibility attendantupon the honor and thought feverishly of certain spotsin the music where they weren’t quite sure they couldmake it; not with the whole town standing aroundlistening.

They fumbled their instruments, stood hipshot andconsciously unconcerned while they waited for thetrain. Their leader glanced around the group, encounteredcertain anxious pairs of eyes fixed upon his face,and made an impulsive change in the programme.“The Star-Spangled Banner” was appropriate andcustomary for such occasions, but there were treacheroushigh notes which a certain scared boy might playflat, and other places where the slide trombone was indanger of skidding. He gave them a piece they couldplay with their eyes shut and was rewarded by hearinglong sighs of relief here and there among themusicians.

So it happened that when the train had slid into thestation and the Governors and high officials had descendedfrom the private car, Rawley caught thefamiliar air, “I’m forever blow-ing bubbles” floatingout over the heads of the assembled citizens of LasVegas. If the tune wabbled here and there, what matter? Governors and high officials can hear bettermusic anywhere,—but they never will hear a moresincere effort to please, made by more loyal hearts thanskipped beats under the white jackets of the “kidband” of Las Vegas.

Rawley caught himself humming the words to himselfand thought, in a heartsick way, of Nevada, onlytwenty-five miles from him, so far as miles went,—amillion miles away in her thoughts.

“I’ve talked Boulder Canyon Dam until I wondersometimes if it isn’t Bubble Canyon, maybe,” a certaingovernor confided to him under his breath. “Do youreckon this is a civic confession the kids are making,or what?”

“The civic air castle—nearest the kids can cometo it,” Rawley grinned. “Wait till you hear this townstand up on its hind legs and tell you how they feelabout it. They talk Boulder Canyon in their sleep,I reckon. It’s no bubble to this bunch! If therest of the country had half the enthusiasm thistown has got, they’d be hauling concrete to the riverto-day!”

“Instead of the Commission, huh? Well, I wishthey were.”

A man pushed out of the fringe of common citizenswho came merely to look upon assembled greatness andfaced Rawley, smiling with his eyes.

“Uncle Peter!” Rawley gripped his hand and didnot know that his eyes searched the crowd, wistfully,seeking a face—

“No, she didn’t come,” Peter informed him. “Iwant to get a chance to talk with the men in your outfitwho count the most. Not on paper, but with thegovernment. Can you fix it for me, boy?”

“Has anything happened?” Rawley drew himanxiously aside.

“No—I just want to get at the right men. I wantyou there, of course.” Peter glanced here and thereat the men who were smiling, shaking hands, speakingpleasant phrases.

“All right. Of course every minute is mortgaged,I suppose, to the town. But I’ll get you—”

“An hour will do me,” Peter stated modestly, andRawley suppressed a grin.

Looking him over surreptitiously, Rawley decidedthat he could be very proud indeed of Uncle Peter.Even amongst governors and such, Peter could holdhis own with that quiet dignity which nothing seemedable to ruffle, that poise which came of being very sureof his own mind and of what he wanted. A greatman looked from one to the other curiously, and Rawleyimmediately introduced Peter to him. Then hecaught the eye of another, and presently that man wasshaking hands very humanly with Peter Cramer, wholooked so much like George Rawlins King, of theReclamation Service. Before he quite realized whatwas taking place, Peter was absorbed into the party ofgreat men, and a flustered waitress in the depot diningroom was hastily making room at a table and layinganother knife and fork purloined from the lunch roomoutside.

The reception committee probably revised at the lastminute their arrangements for seating the party in thedecorated automobiles. Some one must have beencrowded; but Peter rode in comfort in a big car incompany with some of the nation’s important men,though this was not what he had gotten an early haircutfor. He had seen the river in all its moods andunder all conditions; it seemed strange to him now, nodoubt, to be sight-seeing it with men who had heretoforebeen no more than names to be read in headlinesin week-old newspapers. But no one suspected it,—unlessperhaps some member of the reception committeewondered how he had broken in. However, as aguest of the Colorado River Commission, seven governorsand railroad presidents, no mere local committeedared flicker an eyelid.

“It has to be done this way—whatever it is youwant to do,” Rawley muttered once in Peter’s ear atthe river, when he caught Peter looking boredly at thebold cliffs of Boulder Canyon. “You couldn’t get alook-in, just coming up and trying for an interview.As soon as we get back, and before the banquet uptown, I’ve arranged for you to talk to the Commission.I told the chief,” he added drily, “that it wasmore important than anything else he’d hear. I gambledon that, because I know you. And a little nervegoes a long way, sometimes. We’re going to cut thisshort as possible and get back to the car early. Then—you’llhave to boil down your hour, Peter. Therewon’t be more than half that much time for whateverit is you want to say.”

“It may pay this Colorado River Commission,”said Peter laconically, “to miss their supper to-night,and even cut out some of the speeches they’ve got readyto hand out to Vegas citizens. As I understand it,the Commission was created for the purpose of investigatingclaims, collecting all data and adjusting rightspertaining to the Colorado River. They’d better takea piece of bread and butter in their hands and eat itwhile they listen to what I’ve got to say.” He pausedand added significantly, “You tell Hoover I said so.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE VULTURE MAKES TERMS WITH THE EAGLE

Rawley had them rounded up in the private car—governorsand high officials and newspaper representatives—lightingcigars, cigarettes and pipes and eyeing,their curiosity politely veiled, the big, broad-shoulderedman with the brown skin and piercing blueeyes, who stood at one end of the car waiting for themto settle themselves into easy, listening attitudes.This was informal,—but if they were to believe thatkeen young man, George Rawlins King, it was goingto be pretty important; and, what appealed to most ofthem like a window opened in a stifling room, freshand untalked. It is impossible to eat, sleep and livewith one subject for months without feeling a tingleof relief when some entirely new angle crops up,—somethingthat hasn’t been argued, weighed and considereda hundred times. The Colorado River Commissionwas on the job,—heart, soul and mind. Butthat did not preclude secret sighs of anticipation whenthe Commission faced something wholly new to everymember.

Not a man among them knew Peter Cramer. Notone had ever heard the name. He looked a man ofthe desert, every inch of his six-feet-and-something-over.He might turn out to be a bore; he did not looklike a boor. He did not wear his hair in the prevailingfad; it grew thick to the nape of his neck and wastrimmed there neatly by some barber who rememberedhow they used to cut hair. His dark suit was incontestablymade to his measure,—but it had been madebefore the War. You don’t get such material nowadays.At least, men of the desert do not get it. Hishands, as he shuffled a few slips of paper, showed howhardly they had been used. They were the hands of alaborer, scrubbed meticulously clean, the nails trimmedpainstakingly,—with a pocket-knife, one could guess.So there he stood, towering above them all, with pre-Warclothes, the hands of a laborer, the eyes of athinker.

The car became very still. Every man there lookedat Peter. And one man’s eyes held love, sympathyand a shade of anxiety. To this moment, RawleyKing could only guess at what his Uncle Peter wasgoing to say. There was a little prayer in Rawley’sheart, in his eyes. A modern, young-man prayer,“God, don’t let him pull a boner!” It would be wellif all the prayers in all the churches were as sincere.

“Gentlemen of the Colorado River Commission”(Peter began in his deep, even voice that carried far)“you do not know me, and I do not know you. Ithank you for consenting to listen to me. When I amdone, you may thank me for consenting with myself totalk to you. In the words of a certain wise man—whosewisdom I wish I might borrow as I borrow hiswords—‘I am not a clever speaker in any way at all;unless, indeed, by a clever speaker they mean a manwho speaks the truth. You will not hear an elaboratespeech dressed up with words and phrases. I will sayto you what I have to say, without preparation and inthe words which come first, for I believe that my causeis just. So let none of you expect anything else.’ IfI could better that statement, make it more forceful,I should hesitate. Gentlemen, they stand for absolutehonesty of purpose. Let them stand for me now, asthey stood for Socrates—but I hope with happiereffect.

“Fifty-four years ago, I was born within sight andsound of the Colorado River and within sight of thecliffs of Black Canyon. The river has been a part ofmy life. The wilderness hedged me in, mile uponmile. When I was ten, so long ago as that, I was taughtthe use of a rifle that I might help defend lives andproperty from hostile Indians and renegade white men.My mother is the granddaughter of a chief, and thedaughter of a Spanish nobleman who voyaged up fromMexico before white men had seen this country. Iam therefore one-fourth Indian,—a son of the desert.My father was a white man of good blood.

“When I was a boy and helped in my father’s mineat Black Canyon, I was urged to greater labor by thegreat plan my father had conceived in his long laborat the placer claims. He would save his gold untilhe had enough and more than enough. Then, whenhe had gold enough, he would dam the flow of theColorado River and get the gold that lies in the riverbed, washed down through the ages.

“That plan became the splendid dream of my life,Gentlemen of the Commission. The stupendousnessof the idea took root in my very soul. I would standand watch the river hurrying past, and I would thinkhow best it might be done, and I would picture theriver held back, halted in its headlong course to thesea.

“When I was fifteen I was studying, in a small,groping way, the engineering feat of damming theriver at Black Canyon. I knew that I had a tremendousproblem before me. I knew that the problem wasdoubled by the need of secrecy, which had been impressedupon me from the time I was a child. No onehad thought of getting the gold from the river bed.The river was too swift, its currents too treacherous.I used to watch the steamboats warp up against thesweep of that current, to make the landing at ElDorado. That gave me an idea of the giant strengthwe should have to combat, to conquer. No one eversuspected the purpose that grew within the minds ofthe ‘squaw man’ Cramer and his breed boys, miningat Black Canyon. Deliberately we fostered the beliefin our commonplace lives, our lack of ambition, ourignorance. That belief, gentlemen, was a necessaryfactor in our ultimate success.

“Studying alone—for my younger brother avoidsthinking when possible, and my father gave himself upwholly to the thought of getting the gold—I felt theneed of help from our great engineers. I could nottake the time for college, for studying in the schoolsthat turn out engineers. I am a man of the desert, asyou see me. What I know I have learned by readingwhen others slept. I could not give my working hoursto study, for they were sold to the need of gettinggold to build the dam in order to get more gold! Ialone realized the magnitude of the undertaking; tome they looked for the wit to accomplish their desire.And I remembered, gentlemen, the engineering problemsolved by half-savage peoples; their power is gone,but their engineering feats remain to testify for them.I remembered the pyramids, some of the wonderfulold cathedrals of Europe, the marvelous ruined citiesof the Incas, the Aztecs,—I counted myself a savagewho must think for himself, and I went at the problemof making the splendid dream a reality.

“Gentlemen, when I was yet a boy I was experimentingwith explosives. I was studying the resistanceof granite, the lifting power of black powder;I was preparing to build the dam. Before I had bookson the subject, I had measured so many cubic feet ofgranite and had heaved it a certain distance with somany pounds of black powder. Over and over againI did it, in spare time when I was not working in theunderground placer claims by the river.

“I will be brief, gentlemen, but I want to be understoodby each one of you before I stop talking. I toldmy father, when I was in my teens, that we must havea million dollars before we could hope to carry outhis idea. I told him that we must have enough, or losewhat we had. I showed him where failure to dam theriver would mean a total loss of time, money, labor.I convinced him that I knew what I was talking about.I hope that I can convince you.

“Gentlemen, in order to dam the Colorado Riverand mine the gold in its bed, for a distance of, say, amile or two, you must make sure first of all of themeans, second of the secrecy of your plan, and third ofthe practicability of the project. We had placerground of unsuspected riches; an underground watercoursewith gravel bed, carrying placer gold. Thisgave us the means. We simulated poverty and ignoranceand a paucity of ambition, which gave us immunityfrom suspicion that we had a secret to keep. AndI made it my business, gentlemen, to study the practicalengineering problem.

“I had long ago chosen the spot for the dam; apoint in the canyon where the granite cliffs rise highest.I drew charts—” Peter glanced toward Rawley,and his eyes twinkled “—of a system of undergroundworkings which, when filled with black powderaugmented by light charges of dynamite, would breakthe granite walls and heave them into the river. Iworked upon the principle that it would be better touse too much than not enough, and for fifteen years—yes,for longer than that—I have been buying andstoring black powder. To-day, gentlemen, I have inplace explosives which, with hush money that I wascompelled to pay for the secret, have cost approximatelyone hundred thousand dollars. In place!Wired, tamped with heavy cement, ready to go.Ready to shoot!”

He looked from face to face, smiling while he waitedfor the information to sink in. He saw certain newspapermen poise pencils before they set down the sum,then scribble furiously.

“You didn’t know that, did you? No one has toldthe Colorado River Commission, until now, when Iam telling you, that twenty-five miles from here, inthe cliffs beside the river, there is at this moment peacefullyreposing a giant ready to rise up and fling rocksinto the river, and lie back again when all is done, towatch the Colorado halt in its headlong rush to thesea! I will be more explicit, gentlemen.

“In the cliffs, ready to shoot—bear that always inmind—I have five hundred thousand pounds of blastingpowder, and fifty thousand pounds of forty percent. dynamite, so disposed that, fired simultaneouslyon both sides of the river, the volume of rock willmeet midway and drop into the channel. Some distanceup the river, I have an auxiliary dam built, readyto blow at a moment’s notice if the main dam seemsin danger of not holding against the terrific pressureof the Colorado’s flow.

“Incidentally—I had nearly forgotten to tell you—Ihave perhaps the oldest, most complete privaterecord of the flow, rise and fall of the Colorado Riverin existence. The record goes back thirty-nine years,gentlemen. I still use a gauge which I invented whenI was about fifteen, and I find that it is practical,though crude.

“I have planned the auxiliary dam, as I call it, tocheck and help hold the pressure against the main dam,if necessary. In flood time the force is terrific; I haveprovided against that. The auxiliary dam, if thrownin, will give me time to strengthen the main dam. Ihave not expected that one big blast will end the matter.Once that is in, and further secrecy impossible,I shall be prepared to rush one hundred men, whosenames and addresses I have on file, to work with compressors(two on each side of the river, each one portableand capable of running three drills each—withjack hammers and expert men behind them). Thesewill rush another system of undermining, so that asecond installment of Black Canyon can be heaved inupon the first.

“You will bear in mind, gentlemen, that we are firstin the field by a good many laborious years. I grantyou that the idea was born in greed. The eye of thevultures have dwelt upon the gold in the river, thesefifty years. But even the vulture must give way tothe Eagle. I have seen the wing of the Eagle spread,and its shadow has touched our dam in Black Canyon.Gentlemen, the vulture has come to make terms withthe Eagle.”

That, for reasons best known to the Commission,was applauded. A great man asked a question.

“How much, approximately, have you spent in thisundertaking?”

Peter glanced down at a slip of paper in his hand.

“It is something I have waited to tell you. Idivided our capital into budgets, as follows:

“A dredger, now waiting at Needles to be towed upthe river, four hundred thousand dollars. (That, ofcourse, is our personal property and need not be consideredin our negotiations, if any are carried on.)Fund for payment of damages to property caused byblasting, one hundred thousand dollars. (That,I thought, should pay for all the windows and crockerywe may break, and that remains in bank until suchtime as we need it.) Property bought along the riverabove the dam site, which may be inundated, fiftythousand. Incidental expenses covering a period ofyears, fifty thousand. Explosives, wiring, batteryand cement—with hush money paid out—one hundredthousand dollars.

“The explosives, gentlemen, I should expect thegovernment to buy, if you take over our dam; which Ihope that you will do. I have no desire now to infringe upon the rights of the government, even if Icould. The project has been my life’s work. Theachievement in itself has been the big dream of mylife. If it will be of any service to you, if your engineersfind my idea a practical one, I shall feel that mylife so far has been well-spent. I had an idea thatour dredger might still be used in the river bed to extractthe gold. We have claims on both sides of theriver. I have hoped that we might still be able tooperate our dredger, paying a royalty to the governmenton whatever gold we may take out. If that isimpossible, then we shall be obliged to unload ourdredger for whatever we can get for it.

“Finally, gentlemen, I must urge you to extendyour stay in Las Vegas, so that you may see our dam,and understand more fully what I have been tryingto make plain to you: That we have a dam, ready toshoot within an hour’s notice—yes, in fifteen minutesfrom the time you say the word. I believe that it willhold. You may find that, by reënforcing it, by buildingspillways and preparing for your canals, our damwill be of real, practical benefit to you—put you thatmuch farther along the trail. Give you somethingconcrete to work to, something besides politics, talk,theories, factions. It’s there. It’s ready to speak itslittle piece to-morrow, if you like—though I am notso ignorant as to speak seriously of that. I merelywish to point my information, make it definite. You,or you, or you, could go down to our place, and if Itold you just where I have hidden the battery, youcould hook it up to our wires and dam the Colorado—likethat.” He snapped the fingers he had pointed andstood waiting. And while he waited, no man in thatcar did more than breathe, and look at Peter, and thinkrapidly, with some consternation, of the significance ofhis information.

“Gentlemen, I have finished. I should like to showyou the Cramer Dam, to-morrow. It may upset yourschedule, just as I am making you late for the banquet,which is probably waiting and cooling at this moment.But, gentlemen, it will pay you to upset your schedule.It will pay you to take the time and walk the two orthree miles between the nearest road and the dam.Until you do see the Cramer Dam, which I now publiclyannounce as being completed, you are not fullyqualified to make your report, if report you must make,to the Secretary of the Interior, or whoever receivesand passes upon your findings in the matter. Gentlemen,I thank you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
FATE HAS DECREED

“I should like to say just here, if I may, that manyof the astonishing facts as Mr. Cramer has placedthem before you I can vouch for from my own personalknowledge.” Rawley was on his feet, turnedtoward Peter’s audience. “Just before the war, I waspermitted to look over the work on the Cramer Dam”—privately,Rawley liked the way Uncle Peter haddignified the dam by giving it a name which wouldhereafter identify it to the public—“which at thattime was uncompleted. I did not approve of theirproject, but I will say that I was personally in sympathywith it.

“In considering the facts which Mr. Cramer haspresented to you, I am taking the liberty of asking youto bear in mind that I am willing to vouch for theirauthenticity. And in explanation of my silence on thesubject, I will say that I went to the Cramers andurged them to abandon their project, since it wouldinterfere with the reclamation plans of the government.I did not know, until he stated their positionin the matter just now, what stand they meant to take.”

He sat down, and his chief nodded approvingly. Itwas perfectly apparent to Peter that his cause wouldbe none the worse for Rawley’s championship. Heglowed to see how friendly they all were with Rawley.Also, it surprised his unsophisticated soul to observethe ease and familiarity with which these men comportedthemselves. Headliners in the newspapers,every one of them save the reporters themselves, hehad half expected them to retain their platform mannersin private. They were just men, after all, hedecided, and turned to answer the questions of a greatman as easily as he would have answered Rawley.

The committee of entertainment waited a bit fortheir guests of honor, that night. From the mannerin which the talk slid into other and more accustomedchannels the moment others entered the car, Petergathered that Las Vegas would continue for a time inignorance of what had been going on under its nosefor so long. It tickled him to picture the amazementand incredulity when the Commission should make itsannouncement. Or perhaps Las Vegas would read itin the city papers first. They would be slow to believethat the obscure family of Cramers could put over athing like that and keep it under cover all these years.

At the banquet in the town hall, Peter listened toRawley’s dazed enthusiasm calmly while he watchedthe crowd. This was the first banquet which Peterhad ever attended—a man confessing to fifty-fouryears and quoting Socrates!—and he was interested.But Rawley would not let him enjoy himself as hewould like; instead, he must tell why and why andwhy; a tiresome job for Peter.

“Oh, I didn’t lack confidence, boy. I wanted youropinion without any influence from me. If I’d toldyou all I knew, that wouldn’t have helped me any. Iwanted to know what you knew about it. Then Icompared your ideas with mine.

“No, Jess and the old man don’t know what I’mup to. I talked to them, some, after you left. Butthey can’t see beyond the gold in the river. They’llbe mad, I expect. But we couldn’t go on the way weplanned. You can’t fight the government, boy. Theold Eagle is a real scrapper.

“Yes, Nevada knows I intended to fly a white flag.She’s willing. She sees, as I do, that you wereright—”

Peter’s neighbor on the other side claimed him then;an engineer who wanted further details of just howPeter had planned to move a mountain and cast it intothe river. Two men across the table left off eatingand their talk to lean forward and listen, and the mannext Rawley was frankly stretching his hearing acrossand catching as much of Peter’s elucidation as hecould. So Rawley was obliged to content himself withhis pride in Uncle Peter, who was plainly making anextremely favorable impression on certain governorsand high officials. And it amused him secretly to observePeter’s complete unconcern over his growingpopularity and his childlike interest in the commonplaceincidents of the banquet.

An ambitious reporter slipped up behind Rawley andasked him for the love of Mike to arrange an interviewwith Cramer. His tone was imploring.

“New dope—and oh, boy, it’s a hummer!” heconfided in Rawley’s ear. “You know we pencilpushers are just about goofy, trying to get a freshpunch into this thing. This man, Cramer, is worth amillion dollars to the project, just for the publicitythere is in him. A dam under our noses—oh,boy!”

“He won’t talk,” Rawley discouraged him.“Taciturn is the word that describes him.”

“Taciturn? With that talk he put over this evening?I’ve got every word of it—it’s priceless.Arabian Nights ain’t in it. And believe me, King,it’s going on the wires complete, the minute we get theword to release it.”

“Let’s see,” Rawley mused. “You’re an A. P.man, aren’t you? Well, I’ll try and run Peter into acorner for you—but I won’t promise he’ll give youanything.”

“You, then! King, you’re wise—I can see it inyour left eyebrow. You’ve got some ripping dope onthis, and I know it. Say, if you’ll—”

The toastmaster had risen and was rapping a spoonagainst his plate. The ambitious scribe and the humanbeehive subsided, but Rawley observed that the reporter had pulled up a chair and was preparing to campat his elbow and Peter’s. Well, why not? he thoughtheadily. A man like Peter could go far in the world,give him a chance. And this might be the chance. Adesert man who spoke calmly of budgeting a milliondollars, the savings of a lifetime for three men, tospend in secret upon a project over which the wholenation was arguing, and who could make a talk likethat the first time he ever faced great men was, tosay the least, unusual.

He glanced sidelong at Peter, who had straightenedand folded his arms, gravely prepared to give his fullattention to the speakers. There would be no wordout of him now, Rawley knew. As well expect a devoutold lady to divulge her recipe for piccalilli inchurch. He turned his head and whispered behindhis hand to the reporter:

“Stick around. I’ll do what I can.”

The reporter patted his shoulder gratefully, andRawley came to attention, stifling a yawn. It was solike every other banquet, and the speeches were so likeall the other speeches on the same subject! He listenedwith the same bored loyalty with which the workersin the Liberty Loan drives and all the other drivestoiled through their patriotic programme night afternight, day after day. It did not lessen their patriotismthat the workers sometimes wearied of the same oldarguments, the stereotyped appeals to the patriotismof the public. He wished that Peter might rise andsay what he had said to the Commission, a couple ofhours ago. That would open their eyes!

However, the speeches which were so old to thevisiting great ones were not old to Las Vegas, andthey were not old to Peter. There was the usual appealfor sympathy with the project under the directsupervision of the government, to which Peter listenedclosely, his head turned a bit sidewise so that he wouldnot miss a word of it. The reporter was quietlysketching his profile on a small pad, but Peter neverguessed that.

A tall, lean man from California was speaking. Hewas the fourth or fifth on the programme, and theaudience was restive under his voice, wanting to hearfrom the greatest of the great men there. The greatestof the great men was listening courteously withhalf his mind, while the other half was divided betweenan aching desire to crawl into his berth and forget thewhole darned thing for a few hours, and recasting acertain story which might be used with effect at thebeginning of his talk,—unless Las Vegas was toofamiliar with it. His colleagues knew the thing backward;but then, when one has traveled much with acertain group, speaking valiantly at every stop in behalfof one’s cause, one’s colleagues are going to bebored anyway when one starts speaking, so that theirdesires are never considered. The same old stuff isalways new,—provided one has always a new audiencebefore one.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the speaker was cryingenthusiastically, “you can’t get away from the factthat progress is ever marching onward. The hand ofOpportunity is lifted, knocking at your door!Whether you open or not—upon that rests your future.You can’t get away from it. One day (andthat day is not far distant, ladies and gentlemen), youwill awake to find yourselves in the midst of great,growing industries. The mighty river at your verydoor, ladies and gentlemen, will be at work for theNation! The full measure of her might, ladies andgentlemen, will be at your service! Can such a stupendousthing as that, ladies and gentlemen, be placedin the hands of private interests? I say, no!” (Thetall, lean man did not say it, he thundered the words.)“I say, no man, no group of individuals, can do athing like that! No man—”

A queer, sickening lurch of the building, forwardand back, a shattering of windows drowned his voicecompletely. You know how it is when an earthquakeintrudes upon your little thoughts, your infinitesimalactivities. You suddenly know that you are nothingat all. Your very soul sickens before a mightier thanthou. So it was at the banquet.

The tall, lean man’s plate leaped at him, and a custardydessert which he had not touched,—on accountof dyspepsia—was deposited on his clothing insplotches. He started for the door, enraged becauseevery one else was also starting for the door.

Came a terrific, booming roar like the rolling up ofthe heavens into a scroll,—done carelessly and inhaste. Women shrieked. Men shouted unintelligiblyunder the impression that they were doing somethingto quell the panic.

Peter, stunned for a minute, jumped upon the table,one heel crunching a dish of salted almonds devastatingly.His great voice boomed above the tumult andstilled it, while each person looked to see what and whyhe was speaking.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that’s all. There won’t beany more. Folks, like it or not, you’ve got a dam inthe Colorado River! She’s dammed, right this minute.It’s an accident, a slip-up in the plans, but—she’sthere. You just heard a chunk of Black Canyongo into the river. The man that made the last speechsaid it couldn’t be done. It is done. Now, the governmentwill have to do whatever else is to be done.Ladies and gentlemen, you have just heard the CramerDam go in!”

That stopped the panic automatically. Men andwomen waited to hear more. They were accustomedto blasting, if that were all. They accepted Peter’sstatement that this was all of it, though the womenwere still white, still inclined to clutch their husbandsand sweethearts and wonder if they were going tofaint. Las Vegas was dazed. The Colorado Commissionwas collectively looking at Peter through narrowedlids.

Peter glanced down into the measuring, weighingeyes of the greatest man present. He flushed at whathe read there, and he answered the look.

“It’s my fault,” he said simply. “I ought to havetied ’em up, or brought ’em with me. I should haveplaced a guard over that dam. I did hide the battery—butthey must have found it.”

At a sudden thought he threw out both hands in thegesture with which a strong man meets the inevitable.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, and his voice was a challenge.“Fate has decreed that the thing should gothrough! I had no knowledge of this, but—” hiseyes darkened and twinkled, the endearing King smilesoftened his face suddenly “—gentlemen, if you willstop over a day, I should like to show you the CramerDam, completed!”

He looked at the great engineer who had questionedhim during dinner.

“You said it couldn’t be done! I’m not a gamblingman, Mr. Brown, but I’ll bet you fifty thousand dollarsagainst fifty cents, that she’s there!”

The man he challenged looked up at him. Slowly,as his thought crystallized, the blood drained out ofthe engineer’s face, leaving it dead white. He turnedto his chief, but his voice went to the farthest cornerof the hall.

“My God! What if she holds a while! WarnNeedles, Yuma—send out a general warning below!Tell the people to hunt the highest points they canreach! Gentlemen, if that damned Cramer Dam holdsfor forty-eight hours, there’ll be the greatest disasterin the history of the West!”

The A. P. man leaped chairs, bowled over men onhis way to the door. After him came the banquetersin a senseless rush.

CHAPTER THIRTY
DAWN AND THE RIVER

On the street men were guessing wild. An explosionhad taken place,—every one knew that. Themajority guessed that the powder magazine at Searchlighthad blown up; though as a matter of fact theywere not certain that Searchlight had a powdermagazine.

The more impulsive were already tearing down theroad in automobiles, without any very definite notionof where they were headed for. As is customary insuch cases, every man who had a tongue had also anopinion which he was eager to impart to somebody,and was unable to find any one who would listen tohim.

Into this confusion the A. P. man burst like a rocketshot off accidentally. He was on his way to the telegraphoffice on the second floor of the depot, and hemeant to arrive there ahead of the others so that hecould be sure of a clear wire to cover the story. Besides,he had been impressed with the need of haste inwarning people below. Yet he found time to shoutthe news to a group of men as he passed them.

“Colorado’s dammed!” he cried, and did not waitto explain how it should be spelled. Wherefore LasVegas guessed harder than ever until men less hurriedarrived from the banquet hall and told just what hadhappened. Immediately thereafter, every man whoowned a car cranked up and got going in the directionof Black Canyon. The Governor of the State stayeda while to give certain orders and to make sure thatthey would be promptly obeyed.

Peter laid a detaining hand upon the arm of ashrewd young lawyer whom he knew slightly, and whohad studied him intently while Peter explained to thebanqueters the commotion. The young lawyer instinctivelydrew aside from the throng, to a clear spacewhere confidences might be indulged in. But Peterwas brief.

“Here’s a check. It’s good for ten thousand. Youadvertise that people with smashed windows and so oncan have the damage made good. Get a contractor,have him investigate all complaints, and then fix thingsup. I’ll see you in a day or so. I’m going to theriver to see what’s happened. You attend to the damageshere.”

He did not wait until the lawyer consented to acceptthe job, but left him standing there, the check in hishands, an unlighted cigar in his mouth. Peter wasjust climbing into the big car that drew up to the curbfor him, when the A. P. man—his name was JerryNewton, by the way—sprinted a half-block andlanded on the running board.

“Sent out a general alarm,” he puffed, “and gotthe news to headquarters. Cramer’s speech—wroteit during the feed. Had a hunch I might have to makeit snappy. Needles and Yuma will get word to theranchers—if the big splash holds off a couple ofhours they think they can reach everybody, practically.Anybody got a cigar? Never had time to eat a bite.”

“You’re out of luck, then,” Peter informed him.“No chance till breakfast, now.”

Rawley swung round upon them from the frontseat, where he was to pilot the driver. His voice wasstrained and unnatural.

“The—folks would know enough to get out ofdanger, wouldn’t they, Uncle Peter?”

“They would,” Peter said grimly, “if they had anywarning.”

“You don’t think it was an accident, surely!” AsRawley spoke, others leaned to listen for Peter’s reply.

“I know I found a doctor,—he’s going to followat our tail light. I hid the battery where Jess and theold man couldn’t find it. The rest we’ll know whenwe get there.” Peter’s exultation had left him completely.He sat back in a corner of the wide seat andsaid no more. And by that, Rawley knew that Peterwas worried.

The reporter was saying that Needles had reportedevery window in town broken by the concussion.

“Of course they counted, in the five minutes theymust have had before you wired,” Rawley exclaimedirritably. If Peter was worried over the folks in thebasin, then Rawley knew that there was cause. Hetold the driver to “hit ’er up, the road’s good”, andthereby gained some minutes and gave some great mena jolting.

They left the road to Black Canyon and went onto Nelson. They could drive to the river that way,and one glance would tell them whether the dam washolding. That was important. The Governor of theState having called for help, it was necessary to seefirst of all what the river was doing below the dam,—ifdam there were.

Several cars fell in behind them, no doubt cognizantof the fact that the Governor, Peter and the great engineerwere in the first automobile, and that they knewwhere they were going. So it was a swift processionthat swung up over the summit and down into ElDorado Canyon.

The September moon was lingering upon a mountaintop, loath to withdraw its gaze from the crippledriver he had watched over all these ages long. Peterwas first out of the car, which, for reasons readilyapprehended, he had stopped well up the wash. Ifthe dam was holding so long, there would be a great,engulfing wave when it broke, and the longer the damheld, the greater the flood.

“The river’s high for this time of year, on accountof the storms in the mountains,” the chief engineerof the party informed them superfluously, sincethe occurrence was sufficiently unusual to have excitedcomment before now. “She’s running close to fiftythousand second feet,—or was, when we left Needlesyesterday.” He turned to Peter with courteous criticism;not for him was it to censure or judge, but heventured a remark nevertheless which betrayed his ownpersonal belief.

“You should have waited until the edge of winterbefore you let that charge loose. This is an unusualyear, I grant; but with your knowledge of the river,you must know the danger of attempting to dam itwhile there is so great a discharge.”

The group hurried its pace to listen, but Peter, inthe lead, seemed wholly unconscious of criticism andlisteners alike. He was absorbed by his own thoughts,his own fears.

“It was madness to do it now, in any case,” heagreed simply. “For years we’ve talked of shootingit during September, when the water begins to lowerdefinitely for the winter months. That would give usthe longest possible time for strengthening the dam.If this wasn’t a sheer accident, it was done by a madman,—thevulture who feared the Eagle would snatchaway his feast. I know of no better simile. Gentlemen,I fear you will have to cope with a madman whoran amuck when he discovered my absence and fearedthat I would betray the whole scheme to the government.He could see nothing but disaster in that. Ifhe deliberately blew up the dam, it was with a crazynotion of forestalling the government. I don’t know;I hid the battery.”

He was leading them up on the high bank on thenorth side of the wash by a narrow trail he knew.Even in his haste he remembered that the lives of greatmen must not be placed in danger, and he had notneeded the reminder of the engineer that it was a riskyproceeding, blowing in the dam at the height of thissporadic high water. Not so high as to overflow itsbanks, it is true, but with not too wide a margin ofsafety, either.

No man there knew better than Peter what an unexpectedbreakage would do, no man there felt morekeenly the elements of disaster, once his first exultationover their disbelief had passed; a flare of triumph overthe wise ones. Peter had been on that river just yesterday.His launch was still at Needles, where he hadleft it to take the train for Barstow. He had arrivedin Las Vegas on the train which brought the privatecar of the Commission. He had planned it so, to besure of seeing them, and also to conceal his errandfrom the two Cramers, whose rage would not havestopped at murder, it is likely, had they known whatwas in his mind.

When Peter had embarked in his launch, the riverwas running forty-three thousand second feet. Hehad looked at the gauge. He had not known how thegovernment gauge had read at Needles when his trainleft there, but he did not doubt the word of the engineer. There had been unusual, heavy storms in Colorado,Wyoming, Utah. An edge of it had swept hisown State. To attempt to dam that sweeping floodwas, as he had named it, madness.

Once up the bank they walked rapidly. Rawley,glancing back, saw other automobiles stop behind theircar, and men trailing after them up the bank. It wasa somewhat circuitous route; he wondered if his partywould follow Peter so patiently if they knew that theycould have driven to the water’s edge. They werewalking half a mile when they might have ridden.But Peter was taking no risk.

They reached the high bank of the river just as themoon slipped—like the face of a boy who has beenpeering over a stone wall and who has lost his footing—droppedsuddenly out of sight, and left the riverdark, the far hills gilded tantalizingly with its whitelight. The party halted.

“She’s dammed,” Peter said tersely.

“I can hear it running,” some one objected.

“I know every sound of this river,” said Peter impatiently.“I’ve listened to it all my life. You heara seepage fighting the rocks in the channel. It’s nobigger than a trout stream now. This way, gentlemen.”

In the blackness before dawn, made blacker to themby the sudden desertion of the moon, Peter struck intothe burro trail Rawley knew so well.

The familiar path brought a sharp longing forNevada, whom he had left in anger some months before.Of course she had not been plotting with YoungJess against him! Once his hurt pride let him thinkclearly, Rawley knew that she had been trying to savehim. She would naturally suppose that they had gonestraight toward the canyon, and she was encouragingJess to waste time looking among the rocks, neverdreaming that they were there. Many a time Rawleycursed the King temper for letting him taunt her withher Indian blood. He had wanted to hurt. His instincthad led him to the words that would sting sharpest,even though she believed him as much Indian asherself.

Men before him and behind were talking—short-breathedover the pace Peter was unconsciously settingthem—of the dam, its probable strength and thedanger of a disastrous flood if it held a while andthen failed to hold. Rawley walked among them,thinking of Nevada, wondering if she would ever forgivehim for what he had said to her. Strangelyenough, of Young Jess’s hate and promised revengehe did not think at all. Nevada’s resentment, her forgiveness,—thesewere the things that mattered. Thedam was an incident, a job for others to handle. Rawley’swhole thought was of persuading a girl to forgeta dozen words which he had spoken in blind fury.

Then, looking across at the piled hills beyond theriver (the hills of Arizona), the white radiance faded,chilled, merged into the crepuscule that threatened todeepen again to darkness. The moon was retreatingbefore the coming of the sun.

The twilight brightened, pulled lavender and rosefrom the dawn and spread over the hills a radiant,opal-tinted veil. The great men stopped and faced thedawn, and forgot the problems set by the greatTeacher for human minds to solve, and, in the solving,grow to greater things. The Governor removed hishat and stood, head bared, waiting for the coming ofthe sun. The heralds flung banners of royal purpleand gold. The hills laid aside the thin veil of enchantmentand spread a soft carpet of gray and brown.

The King appeared, a ruddy disk with broad barsof purple cloud before his face. The heavens blazedwith the glory of a new day. Somewhere behind them,in hidden mesquite bush, a mocking bird began singingreverently its morning aria.

Eyes left the savage wonder of the wilderness greetingthe dawn and dropped to the crippled Colorado.

In a dark canyon drab bars of silt stretched likegigantic crocodiles upon the river’s bed, with the shinyhumps of moss-slimed bowlders in between. Rosypools of still water reflected the barbaric dawn cloudsabove. Ridges of water-worn gravel. A thin swiftcurrent was fighting the huge rocks in the channel witha great splutter and turmoil of spray flung up.Smaller streams were worming impatiently aslant theriver bed to join the stream fighting so valiantly inthe channel.

Already the main current was yielding, choked bythe neighbor mountain that had suddenly assailed itfrom above. Against the rocks the sun painted inexorablythe mark of its surrender.

Peter looked down upon the river bed and saw hissplendid dream come true. For a moment his exultationreturned. He looked at the Governor.

“I believe, sir, that the Cramer Dam is a completesuccess!” A ringing note of pride was in his voice.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE VULTURE FEASTS

They walked on, heads turned toward the spectacle.The sun, rising higher, splashed a mellow light intothe deep crannies between the bowlders, set the baldpates of smoothed granite rocks a-gleam,—rocks neverbefore uncovered in the history of man.

Rawley turned and looked curiously at Peter, whoseeyes were upon the river bed while his feet stumbledalong the trail. They were anxious to reach the dam,every man of them. The engineer was stepping outbriskly, keen glances going to the cliffs up-river; butfor all their haste they could not forebear to gaze downat the stark, denuded canyon bottom, where a greatriver had been halted in its headlong rush.

“Well, Uncle Peter, you’ve had your wish,” Rawleysaid at last. “You said you were waiting for the daywhen you could show the Colorado who was boss.You wanted to stop it. It’s stopped.”

Peter looked at him, smiling faintly.

“I was just thinking of Johnny Buffalo, that lastnight,” he said, speaking so that the others, stragglingalong the trail, would not hear. “What was that hesaid? ‘You will succeed, and fail in the succeeding.And from the failure you will rise to greater things’—orsomething like that. It just struck me. I wonderif he meant,—this.” He tilted his head towardthe river. “I’ve succeeded. I’ve stopped the Colorado,and shown it who’s boss. But it isn’t like Idreamed it, after all. I’ve got a hunch, boy, that we’llnever work that dredger. Maybe the government willhave other ideas about that. It was a self-centeredplan, I admit that now. It had no right to succeed.The folks below need the river. I hadn’t figured theminto the calculations at all.”

Jerry Newton overheard that last observation andstepped faster until he was just behind them.

“Did you ever see a flood, Mr. Cramer? I coveredPueblo and several other places; was down South, thatlast big one. Families down below here are gettingout,—and believe me, they are making it snappy!I’ll bet you couldn’t find a breakfast cooked in its ownkitchen, down below here, to save your life! Theyknow what a flood means, and this is going to be likethe crack o’ doom when it comes. Sudden, what Imean. They’ve been tickling the gas levers, believeme, since that blast went off.”

Peter turned and looked at him, frowning.

“What makes you all take it for granted the damwon’t hold?” he queried resentfully. “It would, I’dstake my life on it almost, though it should have beenshot in low water, or falling water. This high wateris not going to last. It’s the run-off of a big generalstorm, and I believe the peak is past, anyway. Youdon’t realize the size of the Cramer Dam. And youseem to forget altogether the auxiliary dam that canbe thrown in, any time it seems necessary.”

Jerry Newton saw the point, but he saw somethingelse, and being a blunt young man by nature, he blurteda retort.

“If you’re so sure of its holding, Mr. Cramer, whatare you so worried about?”

Peter’s eyes hardened.

“Lives, young fellow. Two of them dear to me.”

The A. P. man was silenced. He looked contritelyat Peter’s back, but he could not think of anything tosay.

“Look there!” The engineer, hurrying along inthe lead, stopped and pointed. “That’s what I callenterprise. But it’s taking a chance I shouldn’t careabout, myself.”

The party pulled up, facing the river. They hadreached the lower edge of the basin, about where Rawleyand Johnny Buffalo had camped. The bank herewas high and rocky as the canyon opened slowly itsmouth. The river had been forced to a narrowerchannel, and it held therefore a deeper bed.

Away down there in the middle of it, almost at theedge of the channel fighting still to hold its own, a bentfigure was groping, bent almost double, eyes to theground. Now and then it knelt and clawed in slimypools. Then it went on, inch by inch, like a child pickingpretty pebbles on a beach.

“Old Jess!” cried Rawley. “Peter, it’s Old Jess!Call to him! He’ll step into a hole—there’s quicksand—orif the dam breaks—”

“He’s crazy!” several of the party spoke the wordsat once, as sometimes happens, unconsciously formingan impromptu chorus. “Call him out of there!”

“He wouldn’t come!” Peter was starting towardthe edge, seeking a trail down. Rawley, runningahead to the place where he used to bring up water,was down before him.

“Go back! I’ll get him,” shouted Peter, scramblingafter, and those left at the top gesticulated and shouted.

“You go back,” Rawley cried over his shoulder.“One’s enough!” Then, having reached the bottom,he started out.

The vulture saw them, and flapped his arms andscreamed vituperations in a reasonless rage, greed-mad,thinking they were come to rob him.

Slipping, sliding among the bowlders that piled theriver bed in places, the two ran out, instinctively avoidingthe treacherous bars of engulfing mud that lay upstreamfrom some larger obstruction, the deep poolswhere fish were leaping. Neither would turn back.Both men realized that.

The vulture picked up a rock as big as his fist andthreatened them with it. They went on, straight forhim. Old Jess gave a maniacal scream, hurled therock and fled. Rawley ducked. But Peter, comingjust behind him, was caught in the chest. He lurched,slipped on a slimy spot and went down backward on arock.

Rawley did not see. He was hot after the old man,who ran awkwardly, his pockets weighted so that theysagged the full stretch of the cloth, a sample bag overhis shoulder knocking heavily against his back. Heheaded straight for the current that boiled, a miniatureColorado, in the channel.

He meant to jump it and gain the other side. Hehad lost all sense of proportion. He did not see thata horse could scarcely clear the racing flood. Rawleyshouted a warning just as Old Jess reached the brink.The old vulture gave a scream, sprang out, and thecurrent caught him and dragged him down.

Rawley ran for a few steps down the plungingstream, put one foot in the quicksand and hurled himselfback just in time. The black, tumbled object thatwas Old Jess whirled on.

“The river never gives up its dead; he said it himself,”Rawley exclaimed in an awed tone to Peter, andturned. But Peter was not behind him, as he hadsupposed. Then he saw him lying among a litter ofsmall, mossy rocks.

Up on the bank men were shouting, pointing upriverwhen Rawley heaved Peter up on his back and startedpicking his way toward shore. Rawley glanced up,saw the stretched arms, looked, and began running.

Up the river, close against shore, looking as if itwere hugging the rocks for protection, a narrow, whiteline came leaping down upon him. The Colorado wasnot a river to submit tamely to the will of man. Ithad found a weak spot close inshore, and in the fewhours that it had been fretting against its barrier, ithad eaten a way through. Now a slim skirmishercame surging down through the tunnel the water hadmade.

Men scrambled down the bluff toward him; well-groomedmen with patent leathers that slipped on thesteep bank. They could not help, but neither couldthey stand up there with their hands in their pocketsand watch.

Rawley did not see them. He did not see that gambolingwhite line, after the first glance. He did notsee anything, save the next place where he must set hisfoot, the next mud bar which he must avoid. Hisshoulders were bent under the two-hundred-poundweight of a man he loved as he had never before lovedany man, and he knew that safety might lie in a second,—inone long stride.

The rocks seemed to grow more slippery, more slimyas he went on. The mud banks seemed to slide inupon him. He had to turn back once, just in time toavoid a patch of ooze. He imagined that the shorereceded, or that he stood still and moved his feet inone spot. But he fought that notion and forced himselfto believe that he was making time against thesmall, devouring flood that was racing down at him.He kept telling himself that the water had twice as farto travel in order to engulf him as he must go to escapeit.

He was right. The water had farther to travel,and he made time. Indeed, the spectators swore thathe made a new record for speed. Running with twohundred pounds on his back was a feat for any manon smooth going, they told him. Over that course, itwas not an achievement at all; it was a miracle.

However that may be, Rawley used his last ounce ofenergy to reach the bank. A gloved hand reacheddown and caught him. Its mate seized the other wrist.He gave a final dig with his toes and a scramblingwriggle, and crawled up as some one pulled Peter offhis back and the small torrent swept past.

On a shelf of rock above the watermark he lay backfor a minute to breathe before he essayed to climb thehigh bank. He looked down at the rush of water, hiseyes wide.

“Lord, I thought it was the whole river coming atme!” he panted disgustedly, looking up into the faceof the Governor, whose hand had reached down tohim. “Why, I could jump that,—almost.”

“Hardly, with a load,” the Governor retorted.“And then, the whole dam may give way at any moment,now it has started.”

Peter stirred and struggled to sit up. His dazedeyes went down to the new torrent. The sight stunghim to full consciousness. He came up like a lionwounded but full of fight.

“Come on! We’ve got to shoot in that auxiliarydam,” he shouted thickly. “I—was going to—anyway.And let this flood down—easy.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ANOTHER RESCUE

“Going to try for a rescue of the—body?”Jerry Newton looked up from fussing with one of thebest small cameras on the market to-day. He had“got” that dramatic race with the flood, and he madeno apologies for his enterprise. It was his businessto get such scenes.

The Governor pressed his lips together and pointeddownward.

“We’re going to save the living,” he said.“Where’s that doctor?”

A shrewd-eyed, tanned man was already feeling ofPeter’s skull with finger tips that seemed to own a detachedintelligence.

“Just a simple contusion,” he announced cheerfully.“Put you to sleep for a minute, though, didn’tit? Here. I’ll fix you up in two shakes so you’ll feellike new. Let’s have a look at your chest.”

In five minutes Peter was standing steadily on hisown feet, ready to go. Rawley caught his somberglance at the place where Old Jess had disappeared andshook his head, unconsciously aping the Governor.

“No use, Uncle Peter. I tried to get him. It’srunning like a mill race. He landed square in themiddle of it.”

“He did this.” Peter swept his arm out toward thebared river bed while his eyes sought the Governor’s.“Crazy,—you saw that. My half-brother wouldhave more sense. The old man did it, to get the goldbefore the government could beat him to it.”

He looked from one face to another trying to choosewho stood highest in rank.

“I want permission,” he said more firmly, as thedoctor’s stimulant took hold, “to go ahead now andcarry out my plans. I warn you, gentlemen, that ifthat is not done there may be a great flood. Let mego ahead and shoot in that auxiliary dam now. Thatwill relieve the pressure until we can shoot in more rockhere. If I hold back the flood for you, at my expense,you can do as you think best with me afterwards,and with the river.”

He threw out a hand toward the mutinous inshorestream.

“That dam is all rock; tons upon tons of it. Inshoreis where a channel could eat through. The cliffs overhangand would prevent a full drop there of brokenrock. I counted on this. It was my natural run-off.If it broke through anywhere, it would break here.Nature’s a pretty good engineer, gentlemen. But we’llmake it a safe proposition. We’ll shoot in the auxiliarydam. I want a free hand in this, or—I can’t answerfor the consequences. I warn you.”

The Governor lifted his eyebrows at the great engineerof the party. The engineer looked at the Chairmanof the Commission. He looked at the river.Plainly, he disliked to give his word, which wouldcarry much weight and which might lead them astray.Peter walked steadily along, between the Governor andRawley, who held him solicitously by the arm.

“You will bear in mind that I have studied thisproblem all my life,” Peter added urgently. “I’vebeen spending a good deal of money on it. I havelaid my plans very carefully, so as to risk neither livesnor money. The people below us will be safe, if you letme go ahead. In spite of the high water the CramerDam will hold—if you let me go ahead and finish thejob.”

The engineer shut his technical eyes and listened tohis common reason. The Governor was still glancinghis way between steps, wanting his opinion.

“There’s a good deal in that,” the engineer said atlast. “I should advise that under the circ*mstanceswe permit Mr. Cramer to go ahead and make his damas safe as possible. It will not render the present dangerany greater. The longer the Cramer Dam holds,the better chance we will have of averting disaster.Give me a little time, and I can, I think, promise to getthe river under control without any disastrous floodcondition arising.”

Peter’s eyes darkened at the inference, but he hadwon at least one point. That, he reflected, was morethan might have happened. These were truly greatmen; they were greater than their training of keepingwell within the red-tape fences.

“Very well, Mr. Cramer,” the Governor said. “Iappoint you to take charge of the safeguarding of theriver against a flood. I cannot promise immediatefunds, however,—”

Peter dismissed that point with a gesture.

“I expected to finance the Cramer Dam from startto finish,” he said bluntly. “I still expect to do that.All I ask is to be left alone.”

They had reached the flat rock, on the river bankopposite the shacks. Peter sent a glance that way, sawthat the shacks were standing, apparently unharmed,and dismissed from his mind the thought of danger tohis family. With the engineer beside him, the Governorand others behind him, he kept straight on to thedam site. He was wondering if that maniac, Old Jess,had thought to remove the big launch to a safe pointaround the bend above. If not, they might not beable to cross the river, should they want to do so.There were a few ticklish little points in the situation,he was bound to admit.

Rawley let go his arm and turned away toward thecamp, and Peter called after him.

“Have Gladys and Nevada cook a big breakfast,son. We’ll be back in an hour or so. And look outfor another blast. But it will be a lot farther off thanthis one was. Have plenty of hot coffee.”

“You bet!” Rawley promised, his heart curiouslylight. Angry or pleased, Nevada was very close. Inanother minute or two he would see her. There wouldbe plenty to talk about, besides themselves. Just tohear her voice, he thought exultantly, would be apanacea for his loneliness.

As he neared the place he stopped as though someone had thrust him back. Then he went on, runningas he had not run from the small flood in the river.The shacks stood, unharmed save for gaping windowsashes, splinters of glass sticking like flattened iciclesto the edges. The porch of Nevada’s rock-faced dugoutcabin stood upright, though slightly twisted. Butbehind the porch the rockwork was tumbled in a confusedheap.

At a certain place in the ruins, Anita was whimperingand tearing at the rock with her fingers. Two of theolder children were trying to help. It was the sightof these which filled Rawley with a cold fear. Theywould not tear at the wreck of an empty cabin.

Anita turned and stared at him dully. Then shepointed, her hand shaking as if she were stricken withpalsy.

“In there—Nevada,” she quavered. “My girl die,mebby! Lil time ago, speak to me. Now don’t speakno more. Mebby die.”

“Get back, out of the way.” Rawley went up,looked at the place where they had been digging, andcaught his breath.

“A little more, and you’d have had the whole thingin on top of her. Don’t you see that wall just readyto topple? Kid, go get a pick and shovel. I’ll try theroof.”

He recalled the construction of the place, thankingGod that he had spent many days there. The rockcabin had been set back into the hill, against a rockledge of the prevailing granite. That, he felt sure,would hold against anything but a direct charge ofexplosives. In the far corner a dark, closet-like recesshad been cut, and roofed with poles, corrugated ironand the dirt. It was used, he remembered, as a storeroom.It had never been finished like the two roomsin front. The rock walls were bare, the poles and ironshowed in the low roof.

With pick and shovel he began digging at the roof,which had remained intact. As he worked he cursedPeter’s thoroughness in constructing the place. Thepoles were set rather close together, and they werespiked down to heavy beams. The oldest boy broughta pinch-bar for that, and Rawley, throwing back theiron roofing, pried up a pole and let himself down intoblackness.

The heavy curtain that hung in the doorway of thestoreroom was slit. Beyond, the room seemed at hisfirst dismayed glance to be completely filled with rockand débris. Then, quite close, he saw her.

She was sitting before the homemade desk that heldher typewriter. Spread out before her were the bookswherein she kept the records of the Cramer Dam.She had been working on the books when the blastwrecked the place. A beam from the ceiling hadfallen, caught upon another beam, and pinned herdown, bowed over her desk. Perhaps she had beenleaning upon her folded arms to rest, when the shockcame. But the beam was lying against her back, holdingher down, and upon that, around it, rocks werepiled.

Rawley set his teeth, carefully removed the rocksbetween him and the girl, and crept closer. Hesitating,afraid, he reached out and touched her fingers, stillclosed around something which she had been holdingin her hand. Her fingers were cool, pliable,—alive,he could have sworn. So his heart, that had seemedto stop altogether, gave a great jump.

Very gently he released the thing she was holdingand drew it toward him. His old, weather-scarred,briar pipe! He looked down at it dumbly, looked atNevada and very carefully laid the pipe back, againsther fingers. His eyes were very blue and bright;his face was very pale. He steadied himself. Hewould get her out; he must free her and bring heralive to the safe outside, where—

A fear stabbed him. They were going to shoot inthe other dam! He hadn’t much time, then. Anothershock,—Peter had told him to look out for a blast.It was perhaps a matter of minutes.

He raised himself, looked at the beams. Theyseemed to be solidly braced, for the present, thoughanother concussion would be likely to throw themdown. He looked down.

Nevada was sitting on a reed stool, with two cushionsupon it to give her height. He crept closer, raisedhimself and set a shoulder against the beam that layalong her bowed shoulders. He steadied it so whilehe took firm hold of a cushion and pulled it from beneathher.

Nevada’s body sagged a bit. Rawley could see daylightnow between her shoulders and the beam. Hewaited a breath, felt no settling of the beam, and pulledout the remaining cushion. Still the beam held fast.Nevada, then, was not being crushed; she had beenpinned down without bearing the weight of the beam.

Rawley went back, crouching under the caved roof.His arms were round Nevada when he stopped andpicked up the pipe, slipping it into the pocket of herblouse. Then, pulling her gently to him, he drew herout from under the beam and into the granite-walledstorehouse. As he lifted her in his arms Nevadagroaned.

Anita’s arms were uplifted to receive her when Rawleycame up head and shoulders through the gapinghole in the dugout roof. But he shook his head,stepped out with her in his arms and dug heels in thesoft bank, working his way down to the level.

He still held the girl in his arms, looking for a placewhere he might lay her comfortably, when the earthshook beneath his feet. The terrific boom of theexplosion deafened him. The jumble of rock shookand fell, tighter packed.

The auxiliary dam was in.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE EAGLE’S WING

Nevada was lying on the bed in Anita’s shack, tryingto convince Rawley that the doctor knew whathe was talking about. The doctor had declared thatNevada’s injuries were mostly superficial bruises andthe nervous shock of sitting cramped in one positionfor hours, expecting every moment to be crushed todeath. Nevada had seemed rather crestfallen whenRawley told her how simple a matter it had been tofree her from the beam.

“The whole thing caught me unawares just when Ihad stopped a minute to rest,” she explained defensively.“I think I was half asleep when it happened,and of course my lamp was smashed too flateven to think of exploding. It was black dark, and Isuppose it was natural to imagine that I was beingcrushed when I was merely held fast. I did not tryto move. I was afraid the whole thing would comedown on me. Of course, I should have thought of thecushions,—”

“You’d be a wonder if you had; even more of awonder than you are.” Rawley took her hand in bothof his and patted it, in a sublime disregard of the circ*mstancesof his last visit to the basin. “I believein omens, Nevada. Fate gave me a splendid one whenI found you.” Rawley smiled at her mysteriously, hiseyes twinkling.

“In the general wreck, my old pipe had landed fromsome cranny right on the desk beside you. You can’tmake me believe that Fate didn’t mean something bythat! The way I interpret it—”

“A freak accident,” interrupted Nevada, her cheeksshowing alarming symptoms of a sudden attack offever. “That old pipe! You didn’t take it, and Imust have tucked it up somewhere until you cameagain. I suppose it rattled down.”

Rawley’s eyes had never been so blue. They werelike looking down upon a sunlit sea. He dipped hisfingers into the pocket of Nevada’s blouse and producedthe pipe, turning it tenderly in his hands.

“God bless the day I learned to smoke!” he murmured,his eyes still dancing. “It may have rattleddown—but I know it’s a good omen. It means—”

“Yes?” Nevada’s big eyes were upon his face. Afaint tremor was in her lips, as if laughter and tearswere fighting for the mastery.

“The omen says that you and I are going to getmarried within a week. Well within a week.” Hewas studying the pipe as a mystic studies the crystal.“It tells me that the hatchet is forever buried. Thisis the pipe of peace, and it passed from me to you.That means that you and I go through life together.Our trails never separate. It means—”

“Oh, hush!” Nevada cried sharply and struck atthe pipe in his hand. “Our trails can’t lie together.We can’t marry, ever—ever! You know that aswell as I do. We’re cousins.” She turned her face tothe wall.

Rawley did not speak. He looked up from the pipe,straight into the eyes of Anita, sitting in a corner like abronze Buddha disguised as a squaw.

Anita met his look with stolid obstinacy, neverblinking, never a quiver in her face.

Rawley’s jaw squared a little as he continued to lookat her. His body swayed forward, his eyes boringinto her very soul. So had King, of the Mounted,looked when he demanded that Anita should choosebetween himself and Jess Cramer. Rawley did notknow why he stared at her so. He only knew that thetruth was there, hidden behind those unreadable eyes.He knew that the truth would give him Nevada themoment that truth was spoken. No lips but Anita’smight speak that truth; other lips were sworn tosilence.

The old squaw whimpered under her breath. Hereyes flickered and could no longer look defiance intothose terrible, commanding blue eyes,—the eyes ofKing, of the Mounted. Her hand went up to shield herface from the stare of them. She stirred uneasily inher chair. She spread her fingers, peering fearfullybetween them. The terrible blue eyes looked at herstill. Slowly, painfully, scarce knowing that she didso, Anita pulled herself up from the chair and wentforward as one goes to the bar of justice.

As a flame shoots up suddenly from dying embers, sodid a flame dart out from the ashes of her youth. Thestooped, gross old body straightened. Anita’s headwent back. Her eyes glowed with a little of their oldfire. Her voice rang clear, proud with the pride ofancestry unknown.

“Nevada,” she cried imperiously and spoke rapidlyin Indian. “It is not true that you are his cousin.He is the grandson of a man I loved in my youth. Heis the grandson of Sergeant George King, who wasthe father of Peter. I have been ashamed that youshould know the truth. Now I am not ashamed, forI know that stolen love is more noble than a lie. Thefather of Peter, him I loved. He was a soldier andhe went away. He promised to return in one month.In three months he had not come, nor sent me word.I was angry and I let the man he hated think that Iloved him and not my soldier man. Then I wentaway, for my heart was sad. I would not follow mysoldier man. I was proud. After a long time—aftermore than a year had passed I returned to ElDorado and I brought my child, who was Peter. Isought for news of my soldier, but there was none.He had not come, he had not sent me word. So Iwent to the man I hated. I told him that Peterwas his son, which was a lie. I was very proud. Ithought that some day my soldier would return andwould see how I laughed at him and loved another.But I did not love. And Peter was not the son of theman my soldier hated. Now the young man comesand loves, and I am old. Soon I go to my soldier man.It is not right that others should have sorrow becauseof my lie.

“So now I speak what is true. I say that thisyoung man is not of your blood. He is the grandsonof the father of Peter, and Peter is his uncle. Youare not his cousin. Now you will be his wife, and youwill hate Anita for the sin of her youth.”

Nevada lay listening, gazing fixedly at her grandmother.She caught the gnarled old hand of Anita inboth her own. She fondled it, kissed it, laughed softlywith tears in her laughter.

“You will not hate Anita?” Tears spilled overthe fat lids and trickled down the cheeks of the oldsquaw.

Whatever Nevada said, she spoke in Indian, stealinga shy glance now and then at Rawley. But her voicecrooned caresses. Now and then she kissed the oldhand she held in both her own.

Anita tucked in her bangs, drew two fingers acrossher cheeks to dry her tears and smiled. She turnedheavily toward Rawley.

“My girl say, loves you more—I love your grandfadder.My girl make you good wife.”

“Hush, Grandmother! He doesn’t want a fightingsquaw—”

“Don’t, eh?” Rawley got up and made for her.

At that moment Peter walked in upon them, unconsciousof the fact that he was interrupting a veryinteresting conversation. Peter’s face was grave.

“Nevada, do you and mother know anything aboutYoung Jess? Gladys is all upset over him. Shethought he was down in the river with his father.She heard them talking about getting gold, and thenthe dam went, and she hasn’t seen him since. If he’shiding,” he added sternly, “he may as well come outand show himself. I think it can be fixed up. TheGovernor wants to ask him some questions.”

“How could I know? I was penned in when thecabin fell to pieces,” Nevada countered. “They certainlysaid nothing to me, either one of them. I didn’tsee them all afternoon or evening.”

Anita slowly lifted her hand to her face and gropinglytucked in her bangs. Her eyes were fixed dumblyon Peter’s face.

“Young Jess—by river,” she said reluctantly. “Iwalk in moonlight, no can sleep. Comes big shootin’.I fall down. Bimeby I hear Nevada—she call mecome quick. I no see Jess no more. I come.” Sherecapitulated slowly. “Jess by river, look on river.Comes shoot. No see Jess no more. Nevada callloud. Jess no come.”

The eyes of the two men met significantly. Peterturned and went out, and Rawley followed him.

“Concussion,” Rawley said succinctly. “If he wereon the edge of the bank, it would throw him off, verylikely. It’s high, out here, and pretty steep. He wentinto the river, in that case.”

“Yes—some folks upriver came near getting itwhen we shot in the second dam,” Peter said tonelessly.“I sent a man up on a hill to wave back any stragglers,but the doctor had to do some patching on the crowd,nevertheless. Well, I’ll go and look along the river.He may be hurt, under the bank.”

Rawley did not think so, but he went with Peter andsearched the bank thoroughly. Halfway down, caughtbehind a bowlder, he found Young Jess’s hat. Hemanaged to retrieve it and bring it to Peter. Peterturned it over in his hand, looked at Rawley andnodded.

“It’s his,” he said shortly. “It’s all we’ll everfind.”

He turned away toward the shack, swung back suddenlyand faced the tremendous heap of broken rockvisible from midstream to the farther shore. He liftedboth hands high above his head, his face twisted, hiseyes black with sublime fury.

“Damn you!” he cried. “Curse the thought, bornin greed, fostered in rapacity, that put you there!Curse the bitter years that brought you to pass! Forthe greed of the gold they would have filched, for thevulture’s eye that watched and waited all these years,to swoop down and snatch and grab, with never athought for the rights of other men, I curse the thingI helped to make!

“Born in selfishness, you have defiled a mightyriver that God meant should flow through the landand one day be a blessing to mankind. You have madeof the river a monster. It is you that is drivingwomen and little children from their homes! You,God damn you! You have been a traitor to the mindthat brought you forth. You have destroyed the twowho worked and waited, that you might pander to theirgreed. You have tried to destroy the dearest thingI have on earth, because I saw in you something bigand beautiful—because I was fool enough to thinkthat an idea spawned in devil-greed could live in nobleachievement.

“Look at the slimy thing the vultures have madeof the river! The leprous thing over which the vulturescroaked—for a little while—croaked and wentdown and died! The Eagle would never stop theriver, leave it a naked, stinking thing under the sky.For the good of mankind, the Eagle would have tamedthe river, without destroying it. The Eagle wouldhave had it run peacefully within its banks, helpingwithout hurting. Now the river lies shamed in itsbed—that magnificent stream!—and men flee fromit in terror. The two who thought to feast in theslime—yes, and I, too, could stoop so low as to rootfor gold like a hog in the mire!—you have sweptthem to destruction, have cheated them at the last oftheir prey.

“But you have done your worst! I, who helpedto make you what you are, who created you thoughtby thought, I will tear you down. For the thing youare, a monument to greed and self, I shall tear youdown stone by stone until the river is once more sweepingmajestically down to the sea. As God is my witness,this thing the vultures have created shall be forgotten.The Eagle’s wing shall shadow the Colorado,a river undefiled.”

His voice ceased. He stood, hands clenched besidehim, jaw squared, staring at the dam that had been hisdream. A dream fulfilled,—and hated in the fulfillment.His lips moved, muttering the prophecy ofJohnny Buffalo:

“‘You will succeed, and fail in the succeeding.And from the failure,—’”

A gloved hand was laid in friendly fashion on Peter’sshoulder. He turned and looked into the eyes of hisGovernor.

“It takes a big man, a man of broad vision, to lookupon his life’s work and dare to say what you havesaid,” the Governor told him kindly, the look of understandingin his eyes. “Don’t be down-hearted becauseyour success has proved a failure. The CramerDam would hold, I believe, if we wanted it to hold.But you are right. It is not for the vulture, but forthe Eagle to say what shall be done with the river.The country needs more men like you, Peter. Youshall help to build another dam—and build it underthe Eagle’s wing.”

Peter lifted his right hand and laid it upon theshoulder of his Governor. His eyes were very blueand very deep. So they stood for a space and lookedinto each other’s eyes.

“‘—And from the failure rise to greater things,’”Rawley repeated under his breath, his eyes shining.

THE END

NOVELS BY B. M. BOWER

THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX

A Flying U story in which the Happy Family get mixed upin a robbery faked for film purposes.

“Altogether a rattling story, that is better in conception and expressionthan the conventional thriller on account of its touches ofreal humanity in characterization.”—The Philadelphia PublicLedger.

STARR, OF THE DESERT

A story of mystery, love and adventure, which has a Mexicanrevolt as its main theme.

“The tale is well written....A book worth the reading whichit is sure to get from every one who begins it.”—The New YorkTribune.

CABIN FEVER

How Bud Moore and his wife, Marie, fared through theirattack of “cabin fever” is the theme of this B. M. Bower story.

“It is breezy and wholesome, with a quiet humor....Plentyof action is evident, while the sentimental side of the story isthoroughly human and altogether delightful.”—The BostonTranscript.

SKYRIDER

A cowboy who becomes an aviator is the hero of this new storyof Western ranch life.

“An engrossing ranch story with a new note of interest woveninto its breezy texture.”—The Philadelphia Public Ledger.

RIM O’ THE WORLD

An engrossing tale of a ranch-feud between “gun-fighters” inIdaho.

“The author has filled the story with abundant happenings,and the reader of this class of story will find many a thrill in itspages.”—The Philadelphia Public Ledger.

THE QUIRT

A story of ranch life in Idaho, with an abundance of action,adventure and romance.

“Like all the Bower novels, ‘The Quirt’ rings true. Lovers ofWestern Stories have long voted Bower a place in the front rankof those who tell of ranch-life, bad men, range wars and roughriding.”—The Boston Herald.

COW-COUNTRY

This story of Bud Birnie will appeal to all lovers of tales ofthe real West.

“A live, well-told Western romance which bears above all elsethe impress of truth in its descriptions of both persons andcountry.”—The New York Times.

CASEY RYAN

Lovers of stories of the real West will enjoy this humorous tale.

“This is one of the cleverest and most amusing of all the manybooks that have come from B. M. Bower’s pen....It is arollicking story, full of mirth and laughter from beginning to end.”—TheNew York Times.

THE TRAIL OF THE WHITE MULE

Another Casey Ryan story in which Casey is funnier than ever.

“The author produces in Casey Ryan a fictional creation, aunique character that is a worth while addition to our gallery ofWestern portraits in fiction.”—The New York Times.

THE VOICE AT JOHNNYWATER

“It is a crackerjack of a story, in B. M. Bower’s best style,the sort of story that you have to read in one evening, so absorbingis it.”—The St. Louis Globe-Democrat.

LONESOME LAND

A vigorous tale of ranch life in Montana.

“Montana, described as it really is, is the ‘lonesome land’ of thisdelightful Bower story. A prairie fire and the death of the worthlesshusband are especially well handled.”—A. L. A. Booklist.

THE RANCH AT THE WOLVERINE

A tale of Idaho ranch life, with a bewitching heroine.

“A ringing tale full of exhilarating cowboy atmosphere, abundantlyand absorbingly illustrating the outstanding features of thatalluring ranch life that is fast vanishing.”—The Chicago Tribune.

THE FLYING U’S LAST STAND

What happened when a company of school teachers andfarmers encamped on the grounds of the Flying U Ranch.

“How the ranchmen saved their grazing grounds is told bythe novelist with breezy humor and an overflow of fancifulincident.”—The Philadelphia North American.

THE PAROWAN BONANZA

“The reader can always take up a story of B. M. Bower withthe assurance that it will seethe with action, humor, Westerncolor and romance....‘The Parowan Bonanza’ is a smooth-running,well-told tale that leaves the reader with a comfortablesense of having seen the desert country at close range, of havingknown its mysterious, starlit nights and burning days, and ofhaving participated for a time in all the surge and rush of a miningtown in its making and its débâcle.”—The New York Times.

THE EAGLE’S WING

A project to dam the Colorado River furnishes the theme ofthis characteristically picturesque and exciting Bower story.

Boston—LITTLE, BROWN & COMPANY—Publishers